She holds her hands before her face
So she cannot see, but feels instead.
Her open palms take and gratefully receive
Without the barrier of sight.
She grows in a sequestered place,
Where the dark is warm,
Where laughter creeps along the floor
And winds through her fingers in ribbons;
Where, eyes closed and bathed in a translucent glaze,
Unreserved and naked in the palm of the god,
She whispers what the darkness knows
To all those trapped in light,
Melting amber thoughts away
in boiling wells of night.