Hers was an existence,
just a memory on an ancient one,
reflection within reflection within reflection.
Everything borrowed, everthing snitched.
Everthing forgotten, skeleton of rememberance,
Somewhere withing the skeletons,
Lied a worm, gnawing day and night.
A phantom soul, everychanging.
From books, to books, to books of life,
Two dimensional everything,
Except perhaps, the worm.
One day, she decided to cure herelf of it.
She arranged the bones, anatomically perfect,
Plucked out the worm and set it on fire,
For an instance, she felt the hell inside her.
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