The Committee Meets at Midnigh

We hold our sessions in the hollows of the bone, a parliament of ghosts,each claiming a throne. The Little One colors on the walls with frantic,bright red, The Protector stands guard with a sword in her head. The Historian whispers of a fire,a slammed door, while another just stares at the silent,cold floor. We vote on the face we will show to the sun. We bargain for time,till the day is done. It’s not a possession.It’s a desperate, shared trust. A way to keep shattered what otherwise would be dust.