Not quite solid.

She wanders in the newly born evening, always.
The moon hanging pearly white, beaming bright from his pedestal;
countless eyes boring down: burning judgement.
As the hammer falls she finds herself craving darkness.  

Wound up tight in looking glass logic and cocooned against reason,
voices weave their way through the silence. Not quite solid.
They speak in contrast, tones of black and white:
"Yes" "No"
"Alive?" "Dead"
"No, no, no"
They seep into the distance, however much she reaches for them,
they allude her touch. She pinches herself but feels nothing,
her fingers passing through her skin as if she were a ghost.
Silvery wisps flare off the tip of her tongue as she tries to speak.
Words fall flat in the silence.

Pensive, she begins to wonder why her legs never tire,
the eastern wind dragging along the tree tops at a constant sluggish pace.
Colours unfold across the sky, alike a butterfly unleashing its wings;
they appear in blots of reds and blues to fade and swell simultaneously.
The skies splitting into two slits, a sharp bleeping ripping tranquility apart.
Then, light.