She decays endlessly
but cannot die before the last worm
has had enough and moves on to books.

No one reads poems cooked up
with a dash of madness tossed with
an overabundance of leaven.

She rises to her tipping point
and falls endlessly in the soundless vacuum
that has become her silent sucking life.

She passes, a speck unnoticed, into invisible
and cannot see beyond the blinding pain
into the realm from which she came.

Night comes and with it fitful dreams
and the ache of awake
and remembering.

Sirens scream and she stares into
the imagination from which they come,
always looking for a door,

Knowing should one miraculously appear,
she would be unable to find
her way from there to here.