Painted Girl
She bends like an East Coast rose, gone to sleep for just a bit as dawn approaches and memories twirl like a carnival lollipop.
Vast and unwieldy.
Where to start?
She prostrates for just a while—resting while rest can be had. Having what she can while having is possible.
Stars surround her in a wreath of imposition.
Caresses from trillions of miles away; always ready to love and exact perspective, always able to burn when she gets too close.
Stains permeate the wall between her and eternity.
Red runs best where red runs most.
The ground sinks under the weight—The weight of fatigue from miles travelled and time spent.
All things flex under a burden; she is no different.
Holding up the fractured remains of a dream framed with care.
Ideals.
Memories.
Remembered ideas.
Thin China tea-cups.
Stainless-steel coffee urns—stained.
Tapestries worn and frail.
Old books and periodicals.
Dolls with half-faces and torn dresses hemmed, once, with care.
All streams run downward and forward.
Viewing through the ravens eye everything becomes equal and weightless.
She stands, once more, to face and to overcome, knowing full-well she may wither as that rose, whenever she pleases.
For just a while.
