She’s a tragic prodigy of her time, hammered nails and spring posies
Playing peek-a-boo to keep the cards from running out
Beautifully highstrung forming charts out of tomorrow

Ghosting sunsets waking up with clubs and spades
What is the the horizon but a roll of the dice, 1’s and 5’s

She’s cloaked with grey roses spun out of lace

Stars tell the future reflected in the dewdrops resting on her pillow
Fashionably awkward and impeccably immaculate

Swansong embodied