She is chasing things she can’t have, living the foolish life
as she does dance steps to the tune of a broken music box.
Picking flowers from other people’s planters, as the
mute strings hum along,
there is no life she would rather live.
Though her porcelain skin is cracked and they let her wander the streets,
she’s more living than any other living thing breathing in this city.
Streetlights flicker in the waning daylight,
there are daisies in her hair,
she doesn’t see that they have withered.
Her face; reflected in the storefront among rosy-cheeked dolls,
cracks a smile.
And she steps onto the road and the cars pass right by,
they are marbles in a schoolyard; she is the child
who never spares a glance,
to the game as it goes on without her.
Her fingernails scratch the surface of a dream with the sound of a broken record,
chasing idiocy across the ocean as she dances on in the wake of
a thousand drowning sailors,
vanishing in misty eyes.
There are ghost in the water and they grasp at her ankles,
leaving scars that are nothing but remnants of creatures that used to lurk
in the dark before dawn swept her away.