Within the eyes
of a starving impression,
sharpened with fear
and the brilliant color of lapis,
endures a faint voice
as soft as the shifting clouds.

Locked beneath the ice
is a fortress of broken dreams
in which a heart beats,
refusing death.

An onyx ring
grasped within the bloodstained palm,
still on the finger
but turned inward,
reminds her
though the darkness of death is near
she has no regrets.

As the icy tomb steals each of her thoughts as they form
one thought repeats:
One sweet moment is left to me,
to warn whatever velvet blackness that comes for me,
I fought.
My body is bruised and crumpled.
My life is at an end.
But I am victorious because I chased the wind.