In an instant, she may not see, but inside her dingy chrysalis she dispensed her tears. Spring came and her legs clung to some tired, pierced opening. Before any exit, with effort, a warrior bore in, encroaching her cold home. Her eyes would have widened but idleness was some consoling practice. Instead she yawns as the lawless brute pawed at her crown. ‘Give me your fruit’ he says cuing his war song. Still, wiping her winter’s sleep from her crushed legs, she longed for light. Some ass wouldn’t necessarily get in the way of that tranquility. So much to his shock, she snapped her eyes close, and invited her ivory memory palace. There she found a tree bleeding so sincere, sweet with sap. She collected her precious gold and kissed the bark, into a grave, honored with roses. Before she awoke she sang “adieu” to her eyelids, smirking for the world outside. Swinging open, she says something vulgar, over her collected agave, bribing her prisoner with false virginity. Stuck in the tree’s sweetness, the chrysalis sucked in the soldier, hubris and all, as she the Hermit slipped out to be free.