There is a woman,
In years her sun is setting.
When it rises,
She wakes,
Gets out of bed,
Walks through hallways,
Out her front door,
Into her car,
In the backseat,
Where she goes back to sleep.

Why she does this, I don't know.
It has something to do with her fingernails.
She holds them in front of her,
Little ribbons of light emerge and weave themselves,
Until tangled and without direction,
Not without,
In every direction.
In the red back-light her silver hair becomes ablaze.
Extending from this fire that has no sentiment towards time,
Is an arm,
It has no joints and can only have it's palm facing up.
Cradled in the pit of infinite lifelines,
Are a set of hands,
They do a trapeze act on an entire spectrum,
That spangle into a single pillar.
Atop is the closest thing to,
Eternal elixirs.

Why she does this, I don't know,
But I don't want to be like her.
I don't want to hand myself a glass of water and say
'Thank you'.
I don't want to let the wind in my ears,
So it can pierce my head like a javelin.
Turning me to a device that spits directions,
Though,
Doesn't really know,
Because I constantly spin on one foot.
I don't want to be the popping spark,
That ebbs away the right hemisphere of the brain.
The hollowed echo of conversations from prior days.
She drives her car as if it were a living room.
She makes everything inside my skin move down,
A quarter inch.
I don't want to be like that woman,
Who only has herself as company,
Yet still manages to disagree with whats being said.

I want to be a compass that points towards paradise,
Instead,
I find a mirror,
And a reflection of fleeting beauty.
Instead,
I hear the wind,
And an unfamiliar dinner party.