Sand

She saw death in the eyes of her childhood,
Holding sand and clutching shattered dreams of fairies and knights,
Letting their sharp naivete cut her hands, arms, and face.
No stranger to the songs of loneliness,
Blistered feet have roamed the wide expanse of her phobias,
And her travels have given her angels and demons to kiss and love;
Bringing her closer to a center of self and hunger--her mind is as sharp as broken desert glass.
And just as unhinged.
Yet with new found maturity she is licking her lips,
Tasting the swirling sands of what could have,
What should have,
And what never was.
She is finding solace in her calling,
As warriors are never still enough to fully soak in the death and carnage around them.
Which will be a nice change from studying the blood dripping off her fingertips,
Onto parched ground bubbling in rage.
All she has to do is find her way back to the ocean,
To bathe in the truth and power of her journey.