She is impoverished by hope and hounded by frustration.
We meet in tacit dreams and infest an overactive imagination.
She is sealed in an elegant prison in the countryside.
So in the sight of anything new, we stand petrified.
Causing the soul to spoil, stale and slender.
The moment withers into a pastel ocean, all unfulfilled.
Time smothers then scurries: a new verve has been instilled.
Nothing stays at a standstill forever
But there are some things even she cannot sever.
Her glass prison constricts to keep her melancholic
While I tread water, neck-high, in gin and tonic.
We watch clamorous crowds chase a mystic,
Asking is emptiness stylistic?
All that’s glittering and tangible inevitably sinks.
There she sits, applying a fresh curse to the jinx.
Tooting the melodica, the bard is bored.
Happiness to some isn’t happiness to the horde.
But life is not sequestered and flattering,
And glass is not impervious to shattering.