Exhausted by wasted hours past, she lets her
    head rest on desk in midnight hour,
plans powerless
               to gravity.

She dreams she is a tree
                              that does not tire.
                               Her
                                   roots are steady, dug down in depth and settled, and within this landscape,
her leaves are breathing well.

   And somewhere behind her eyelids flickering,
                           and somewhere between the dim lamplight
splaying
shadows on the walls
and the dreamscape where she is tall,
she begs to stay.

When salt wakens, she
wipes her face,
in place now mandated.
Brought back
              and caught
                           her throat burns along with
                                                            will
to no avail.
She has shed
too many tears of this sort and they render no return, so,
                    soul now washed of want, she rises weary,
                                   slips on shoes and stares out window at blackened sky.
                                   She gazes until her vision blurs and a sliver of a slant of luminescence sends her to the
door.
Led by sudden whim,
she fixes
            sight above,
sees now
            silver streaming
down.
She shakes off weight of all delay and takes a step away from where she came to follow moonlight.

The tightness in her chest releases, and she breaks into a run.
                She will not turn back.
                She is fleeing death.

The house caws,
                calls her back, but
                     she is racing time now,
                                and the sun is quickly rising, casting colors
                                      to mark a path.
She threads
       through thick
           of trance
                 and makes her way to day.