The windows have
been closed,
the curtains drawn.
The sunlight attempts
to break through
like a delicate fawn.
But the dusty people
have not seen
the light of day in years.
Their papery skin appears
as though it has been
ripped apart by mere tears.
Their eyes are caves,
their cheeks sinkholes,
their mouths deserts.
One, though, is ready
for light, and pulls the curtains,
unused and light as feathers.
The delicate fawn gallops in
and removes the sunken
skins of the people.
Once again they smile,
finding the oasis, their spirits
rising to the top of the steeple.