She was a bright and glorious angel, an untamed fire soaring against the darkness
And in all ways, always dancing, she knew no fear.
She was as light and faraway as the kiss of silver moonshine on the ripples of a lake.
But eventually she stumbled on the wounded place in the fabric, long forgotten places where the thread had worn bare, and her mind couldn't help but turn against the idea that perhaps she might be able to mend them.
And so she reached out, and at her first touch, she sent up a terrible shower of sparks and a shout of horror as she tore and tumbled down against the invisible cracks in the glasswork.
And so her dance came to an end, and her broken body came to rest against the hard surfaces, beneath the pillars of smoke and ash, where the shadows pool their cruelties like bruises.
And those of us that loved her, went to her then.
But we dare not try to mend her.