I seem to be choosing to be inspired (however obscurely sometimes) by the numbers themselves quite often in this challenge...
She gets restless
Every four weeks,
Needs to complete her rounds,
Grounds herself in cleaning,
A means to forget a past life.
Darts about the house
Ousting dust and grime
While chanting against
The remnants of rememberance,
The chance that she might fall.
She is warding against
The tenets of fate
Mistakes, missteps, known
Alone by her,
Girded by hard work.
Shrouded alone in dust,
Musty under locks,
The box waits
For the day her muster's
Not enough.
For the day she stumbles
Crumples up her will
And spills colours
Under her pricking thumbs -
What comes must come.
When gaudy pictures slide,
Glide her back to truth,
Ruthlessly laid out,
Doubt eradicated,
Debts repaid.
She'll gaze at the hand dealt,
Draw breath and gather all
Her swords again,
Blending her purpose and her magic,
Tragedy and death's hope.
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