She walked through the small stretch of light,
collecting the brightest spots,
the glittering dust,
sweeping up the cobwebs.

She moves through the darkness,
collecting the darkest shadows,
the deepest depth of dark.
She lies on the floor to collect the fallen tears.

She ends in an attic,
she's never seen.
In front of a locked door,
with claw marks on the edges.

She takes the light,
the dust from the dreams,
and rubs them into the cracks.
She takes the shadows and sweeps them across the door,
like lifting away a curtain;
she forms the tears and cobwebs into a key.
And opens the door,
to all the words
she needs.