T E N o f S W O R D S
Misfortune, burdens to bear, ruin, the end of delusions, what seems to be a spiraling and uncontrolled plunge. Sacrificing self. Desolation and sorrow.
She falls. The birds do not aid her — their wings are like blades and their feathers are knives that slice skin and cloth alike. Even their raucous cries seem hostile in the gray and indifferent night. The trees below reach out bare-branched claws to the sky; their trunks rotting from within. The End! she cries out to the sky.
Or is it just the curtain falling upon an act of melodramatic martyrdom?