Mind like an acrobat
She sways precariously back
and forth with the constant influx of travelers
Who never seem to stay more than a night
Part with their cynical phrases
And compare her to a trapeze

Her skin holds decades of atrophy
Harsh marks inflicted by others, and by herself
They pattern her complexion with their marred strokes.
If she existed only in oils and stretched canvas
Painted by Van Gogh himself
She would be a masterpiece.

Even imperfections in the sky
Draw weary eyes to gaze upon them
Amplified in the freckles on her face
Pinpricks on the vast unknown
Flaming ***** of unfathomable chaos
Look like stars to the naked eye