Poetry

It's been a long, slow slide
 To the depths of her soul
 God, I wish I knew the point where she lost control

 She moves slowly, she opens the blind
 She looks out from her window, god knows what she will find
 She listens for sounds of distant conversations
 She has a memory of a time and place 
 But no consciousness of where she is now

 She reads poetry she wrote long ago
 She keeps words deep under the floor
 She talks of secrets and desires,
 Of triumphs and of falls
 She bathes in pools of her reflection
 She sees children in the dark
 She waits for something she's not sure of
 Some kind of spark
 Some kind of life that's not hers
 Some kind of something else

 She's a hundred million miles away

 She writes poetry of places she's been
 She paints words all over the wall
 She waits for something to enfold her
 But she always needs more
 Some kind of life that's not her
 Some kind of something else

 On the centre of the mantle is a tiny wooden box
 And she opens it so slowly and she sees all she has lost
 It's the only thing he gave her and she holds it in her hand
 It's a twisted, shattered, damaged broken heart