paper

And what are these paper scraps that fall from your hand?  Does your skin fall from duress, the affliction of air? Your look is wonder.  Horror? Question?  Why, oh lady, does the snow fall?

And what inks your papyri skin, lady white?  Whose name do you bear? And whose do you shed? Mark of honor, mark of shame, what notes do they play?  Sing a song with these stories of tattoo.  Lend a page, a hand, a cheek, a writ.  Tell me a story from your head's crown.  Is your own Name to be found on your fair hide?

Beware the foul Wind.  Sail it not, dear one.  It would blow you to terra's end and then a world more.  Far from the shores of your day, into the pass of Night.  Pay heed to the howl.  Hesitate not.  Run to the rocks, a shelter.  Give the Wind no hold.  He loves you not.

Do you waste? What are these flakes?  How do we save the tattered and lost?  Walls?  Can I build you a fortress?  A pasting adherent?  A paint to make you anew?  How do I save and protect you?

Or is this the beauty of your form?  The torn edge, the transparent arm?  That a blade could cut and never kill?  White lady, does your paper form hide the strength of thunder?  Loud and cracking, wild freedom.  Is your strength your weakness?

And what are these paper scraps that fall from your hand?

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