While it is still cold she washes her face, slapping small drops of water on the floor. Stains from yesterday bristle a crooked mirror, the one she has lived with and sat in the company of. In the darkness she dawns a shirt while listening to the dance of the crooked mirror. It whispers as the wind slips between the cracks. How enduring how unique her perception of the darkness. To sit among thieves who rob her of rights such as joy, peace and silence. But it is not the company of thieves that she endures rather she is made whole with the birth of the day. While others passively lower their eyelids to die with the sun she wakes to greet the bursting arrival of daylight. The first fresh breath of sun illuminates the darkest hole. A shadowed crooked mirror on a pale white wall. Specks of water glisten a new song. A chorus of golden brass rests on her chest. This moment of beauty cannot die.
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