So close to living
she could taste it,
touch it, hold it,
hear it … whispering,
softly calling her.
No heart, she can’t cry,
tears will not fall;
she glares at walls.
Ne’er a wee chance
to be loved, romanced.
Her head is spinning,
so full of rules
never-ending.
Where’s she going,
ev’rything is a haze?
It’s one of those … days.
No soul, she can’t cry,
tears will not fall;
she glares at walls.
Ne’er a wee chance
to be loved, romanced.
Life’s a mockery
perched in a cage
gilded with gold.
Looking out she spies
a thousand blank eyes.
No spirit, can’t cry,
tears will not fall;
she glares at walls.
Ne’er a wee chance
to be loved, romanced.
So close to living
to being free—
it’s misery!
Standing’s a given
for a clay woman

living on sweet dreams …
a mannequin
hoping to live,
made in our image
yet … she … cannot be.