She sat in the hospice,
Buried quite secure,
A masquerade upon her face,
A glittering mask of blank features,
With eyes not almond- nor brown like mine,
Reflecting glass in the dark of her iris,
A look that was not hostile or benign,
Repainting reality with a pallet of pills
Estrogen, Opium, and plumbago lips.
Aubergine dream eyes, looking for thrills.
Words and wedding are burning,
A story written in blood,
She reaches out for the sweet dream,
But the darkness somehow wakes her up.
