Ariana lies dead, eyes like glass marbles.
Little puppet, her hair like yellow yarn, strings cut.
Glass marbles roll through my mind, sending me tilting sickly.
Strings have been cut, lines of kinship falling slack,
Leaving me yawing sickly, a leaking dinghy with delusions of sails.
Glass marbles fill my life - they are my stars,
My own tiny bulbs of unshakable prophecy,
Sliding under my feet when my strides grow too arrogant.
I clutch them to me; I count them, as a Muggle at his rosary,
Repenting of my sin, my folly, my pride.

A/N: This was written for the second stage of the Fourth Annual Poetry Triathlon over on the boards last October.