Upon the clouded number of spurring nine lives,
Miles above the nine times that she was tried,
She stood, a wrecked flower-tub on the edge of a terrace,
Caked in moss,in the light from the eager heavens...
Waiting for the wind to hurl her...towards spot-revenge...
Waiting for...a tenth, impossible sentence.
The glories of her life, insipidly forgotten,
The stories of goodbyes, in black woven...
Duties of her footfalls, serendipitously held imprisoned
By the calls of her past, a long-drawn burden.
But the night shall reap the sleep of the walls,
When all is quiet, her heart shall quaver,
In her quivering bosom shall be found
Secrets of nine lives and flesh and bone dagger.
Waiting, with its breath abated...
Waiting for a tenth, final sentence.