100 words.
This poetry rattles in me; taking shape only when it recognizes itself, already written. She sits and dreams of word-colored shapes rearranging in the strange crossword puzzle of her mind - will “love” intersect with “dream” or “nothing"? Perhaps she will find the right combinations of all three. Peering delicately down from the top of the ladder, more than three thousand images assault her, demanding a choice. Her decision teeters, back and forth like a marble rolling on an ocean-locked ship. She knows the plank is inevitable; what she hasn’t decided is if she’ll jump or if she’ll be pushed.