She kept her heart encased in glass
Or elegantly displayed
On a moldy old canvass
For callers by of gilded
Or passing note
Wrinkled skirt crumpled in the
corner of the hardwood floor
poised to take the stand
and testify about the madness
and the lines of demarcation,
The hollow harrowing haunting
harbringer of the haughtiness
that once served her so well;
I thought I spotted her reflection
in a magazine,
soot stained pages outlining
the continental shifts in her veracity
and the keloid cracks
running along the base of her foundation
a wrinkled old romance novel
in today’s latest fashion,
pretension the wayward child of passion