Alone--
In dusty winds
atop the rubble
of unintended ruin--
the harpy nestles
in her angst
while travelers,
weary of her pranks

no longer clap
in timidation
as she warbles stridently,
this sour-voiced matron
blames the failure
of her career
on the deafness of
her audience, and I fear

She scourges herself
with regret,
blaming her own heart
Instead of the hole
in her head.

She sings,
(if one may call it that)
painting the night
a trillion shades
of blue.
The world has gone away,
and I think I'll go there too.

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Even dreams need roots in reality.
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