When she woke up that morning,
she had holes in her body, and scars,
more than she could count.
For a long time she could not move.
There were two wooden sticks by the bed
and she could eventually get around,
just about, with a stick in each hand.
The mirror had stopped working
and showed someone different.
Her tongue no longer kept up with time,
though time was there, all around,
she just couldn’t catch it.
Her friends were kind.
Last time she had woken, rose petals
rained down on her bed,
and the world curled into a ball and purred
and was soft between her fingers.
No Rhyme, No Reason 