Pages eroded to ash in the worn palms of the young girl’s hands,
A cackling fire to taunt the poor child,
As she wore a crown of thorns upon her delicate head.
The books’ words imprinted themselves onto her dry hands,
Burning their sorrows in her fingertips.

“Winter is brewing inside of me,”
She thought tenderly,
Gazing into the night of darkness.
There was no light to save that of the stars.
Other than the moon
Who shone above,
A glowing amber that had been cracked in half,
Spilling fossilized memories upon the girl,
Like spoonfulls of marmalade.
She,
However,
Could taste only the bitter taste of orange rinds.