She is a sheep, woven with
white wool coats of docility
She is a carbon copy
carefully stuffed into corners
she is reflections
in bathroom mirrors
as her limp limbs
wrap around her sides
cacooning her into conformity
she bleeds gray from her
demure posture
and lays her sodden sorrows in a box
then buries them in the sand
she walks away
dressing and caressing,
mussing her appearance
but her muted brown eyes
are tattle tale signs of
laminated pictures
in dollar store frames.
No comments:
Post a Comment