Super(imposed)human

She wields her pen,
Swishing it across
A page that tears apart -
Iron-clad, the ink runs
Between the banks
Of her imagination.
Her body-armour creaks,
History undulating every
Fearful muscle of hers,
While her eyes gleam
With the glint of steel-shine.
"Bring it on", her voice slashes
The midnight air open,
Brimming with the fullness
Of absence of every person
She has ever loved.
Like her, the clock
Is at war, ungainly and pointless
Clunking each second on another
Unafraid that peace
Is lifetimes away.
She sniffs out the inevitable
Wasting of flesh,
Powdered by a spirit
Refusing to call it a day.
Her colour-chinked nails
Are her private weapons
That she now digs
Into thoughts huddling
In secret places.
"And you thought you could escape?"
"And you and you and you..."
Her rage declares
Questions cling-wrapped
In memories so fatal,
She might be yanked
Off her horse, that now
Gallops in every dream
That she sees.

"And you thought you could escape?"

No answer prevails.