A broken golf club clutched
like something precious in her hand.
A tornado spinning backwards
while its tail was like a paint brush on the land.
In between them was a field where
nothing stood except the crosses
from the people there before.
Almost at once she finally knew
what she was looking for
way back there in the dark depths
of the spire. Where the fire all collected
like the filament at the center of a bulb.

She set her finger tips against it
and they melted through the glass
like it was water and it got her
across the wreckage of the indoors
branching out into the landscape.
Metal staircases, connected like bent
paperclips hooked messily together,
broke through the weather
out into the burning remnants of the sky.
Half of her face was like a mountain
in the background, and in front
was just a sea of purple water
spinning outward in a whirlpool
that was pulling almost everything back in.
A single moment unremembered
now the perfect place for something
to begin.

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