She lives in the green room.
Where the curt air's laying thick.
Walls like apple crumble.
Cracking to the resonance of the latest passing train.
A box of tricks and secrets held,
within her PC brain.
Halo of electric light.
It's aura, hanging on the arty ceiling,
like a sulky angel would.
She's killing time for company.
She mutters to her ego,
awaiting it's response.
It's response is somehow null and void.
The lady's confidence destroyed.
Hit round the head with all sorts of capers.
Her failings lashed together with cigarette papers.
No pun intended, surely no joke.
Rather bizarre considering the lady doesn't smoke.
(C)LIVVI