se7enchance

To Pass the Time


She pulled at her flaxen hair, strung sharp as thistle dew. The played the harp on her yellowed and graying locks in time to the sound of her sighs. A dreamcatcher torque held the single jewel of a rejected dream. A misunderstood nightmare given cut without clarity, and drawn taut with spiderweb promises. She pinned her braids back with a seashell comb, tied a ribbon tourniquet around her wrist, and played the softest song into the day before yesterday.

10:45 p.m. - 2016-01-25

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