She bled the day the universe was built,
walking on tissue so broken
she called it art

Broadcasting cryptic wartime stump speeches,
in the morning she picked flowers
and read the part

The tired eyes awaited their salvation,
a release into salted balms
of letting go

But she persisted into the encore,
owning the role forged over a
lifetime ago

Soup lines turned to soup cans in the fallout,
merits grew with city limits
over lost bones

While music trespassed sunken hunting grounds,
mounds of soil and debt would not rest
with plastic thrones

When a hasty destiny came to pass,
and art turned to desperate prayer
she learned to wait

And now her brazen footsteps mark the halls,
the air tastes of tales that once were
hers to make