How fragile was she?
For she broke like a glass,
sometimes a mirror,
she spilled like rum sticking to the floor.
How malleable yet again,
for she went from form to form.
Her in the now,
a little dolphin under the sailor’s sight,
then again a star losing its light.

She would want to be like her,
a character built,
maybe born.
A voice that breaks the equilibrium,
understated yet powerful.
She couldn’t see how her beauty,
so charred much like her mother’s,
from the charcoal smoke of the occult house.

Her fall like the orchestral encore,
gracefully followed by a bow,
uproars, shifting bodies, applause.

To me she was but a shadow.
She could rot a room clean,
be the dead flower over the caskets.
She could be the whimpering sound
I heard. Mostly, a dead dog’s cry.

But she was all in all her hurt pride.


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