She woke up sick.
Her wooden limbs drenched with bound torment.
Her eyes merely mirrors of dubiety, marked by soft insecurity encased.
Her skin now bleached.
Her mind framed by Cassiopeia.

Contrails of vanity laced with discontent on her skin
An evanescence of admirers taunts her,
Yet only if her veil is worn too thin.
She knows.
Only an ethereal countenance will please them.

Obsession linked by 4 shattering chains,
5 imaginary bonds.
Unbeknownst to her, imaginary until she
Boasts of her infatuation.
Her lips are thin.

Then her bones sag heavy
Still sat on her mordant throne.
She is once again asleep.
Appeased by dreamy seas
littered with artificial palm leaves.