Portentous corpses always found a way
Of capturing her soul
In ways that serenading chrysanthemums never could
The golden skies we would
Rejoice in
As we felt the warmth dusted upon our blushing flesh
Always faded too quickly into
A deep rustic bronze
And soon dust
Whenever she began to take notice

The whispers of whiskey sang
A sweet lullaby
Every night
When she gathered all of her
Albatross thoughts in the empty bottle
And sent them sailing away
With each encumbering sip

Becoming less and less aware
Of her tragic state of reality
Was merely a method of survival
So that when she laid her head down
Each night
At least in that moment
She feels complacently numb
And dignified in the fantasy world
She has created for herself

As she slips away to dreamland
She cannot help but think
She has never felt more at peace
Than in the moment when
Reality all but vanished
To make room for what will never be.