In between a world spat into imagination
and a dust storm. She took it all into the mist.
Pulling the thick cord behind her, attached snug at the waist. The other end secured by a crisp locked word to a tree at the edge of the thicket. A tree that marked where. Before it all disappeared.
Fourteen small steps inside. A damp salt eating away any regret. A pungent depth of fragmented clay. Nostalgically she picked a chunk of skin out from her shoulders to leave in every gasp of clear air; in the empty sponge she traversed through. All feeling of bottom ground.
As the blood poured down her back, it was evident that the only thing that was still living was the connection between her feet and what she imagined was the earth below. Sight, color, sound were all one repetition. Over and over a gentle tug towards starlit youth.
She could sense but not possess. The weight of the rope lifted as she furthered herself away from where she came. Where possession was a sickness, the white plague.
The rope must have weighed a hundred times her at least, causing for rest and deep resilience against returning to where she had bound herself.
The grass blades around her were singing.
The thick iron rocks below, sustaining her blood loss.