She was dressed in mustard, on a tall golden chair She sat before clean, crisp and clear silverware around her, nothing mattered not even the polluted air she left, nobody noticed they ask "was she even there"
I sat on a wounded chair in a room filled with silence and peace, nobody was there I spoke to the dead and still plastics of life, to seek, love, comfort and care Caged in my imagination crowded , I was unaware I was not alone, I felt a deep stare
Her stiff hands held a needle and a thread look up to her eyes they are open doors not white but deep red wipe your tears, she said wipe my dry eyes, I am unsteady, unhinged I have no tears to shed