Feathers of Bennu

The digital time sings to her
as minutes blur and she has
spent too long remembering.
Violins could illustrate her song 
in the climax of a drama.
Golden sky raining over her
standing on a pink horizon 
and one red crow watches.
When the piano begins to chime in
she turns to the captive audience
film burning, in a daze. 
Eyes glazed and watching
ripples of flame bounce so softly,
in this temple of stone and fence.
Pull her from the light, off the plate.
Shes afraid to walk and let you
see her fall.
Dirt in her eyes.
And you loved blood red skies
over empty fields, stretched on 
wooden frames.
Those splintered highway spines
she never shared with you, but 
somehow thought you always knew.
Sutra vortex and flying out over 
hot plastic seats,
a language in blue and white
she is reborn in Lazarus ash.