(Darkest hour; darkest night.
She falls from her porcelain throne...alone)
 
Shadows upon shadows marked where she lay
Falling inanimate, her fingers did stray
To the thorns in her side, embedded so deep -
To her paralyzed heart, but no one could see
 
See past the love that she nailed to her pain
With hammers too rusty from her time in the rain,
Or through the strands of the smile she wore thin,
Where the soft edges blur, and the weeping begins.
 
Her fingers, they trace down the scarlet lines,
Into her soul, where the brutal thorns lie.
Her bliss they adorn, though hid from her face,
Raping her beauty of all but God's grace.
 
(Looking up, she cries:)
 
"I have bled the day, and wept the night
For the thorns that cradle my soul tonight,
But I shall use them as I must -
To bleed myself of all but love."
 
.
.
.
(Sunrise. She stands)