Her father was a thunderstorm

The years rained down on her 

like a child's spiteful playground punches.

She was brutalised by the time

in which she lived,

a time,

when those who aspired 

towards the vector of truth floundered in a blinding shower of splinters

when those who fell awake 

yearned for the spectral anonymity of sleep

when those walking towards the light were slapped unceremoniously into darkness

 

She had a sheepdog named Murder and she lived in 'Parthenon of Winter' a commune perched on a hilltop  

she would take Murder out 

to scour the moors for 

stragglers

until the golden green fragments of leaves

had weaved punctuation marks

in the snow around their feet

 

Her father had been 

a thunderstorm 

which you could hold in your hand

a tsunami you could fold up

and keep in your pocket.

He told her she was immortal 

but he faded like the scars left 

by betrayal 

leaving nothing more 

than a dark, opaque, ache

 

At night

she would cling to Murder

so closely

that she could hear his 

organs 

reverberate.

His breath glowed

like a supernova 

and she would watch it for hours 

as it circled the room

and then gradually settled

around her head

like a spectral 

crown of thorns