A girl made of marble walks on. The notes on the piano roll, and so do her heels, then her toes, heels, toes- she carries a cloak on her carved shoulders, daintily poised but firmly cemented. A big, beautiful, vibrant piece of life in a fabric woven for the likes of her strolling melodies. They take in her train with their own two eyes, swear on their lives, it's present and glowing and right there on her chiseled skin.
They can testify both day and night but get a stare in return. For the cloak runs behind her body. To her she is bare, a reverse "emperor's new clothes", feeling cold and naked in the unforgiving November chill.
"Symmetry, fractals, gorgeous patterns"
"Color, brush strokes, depth and dimension"
"Treble clefs, eighth notes, winding measures"
Words to her and nothing more, she shivers in the sapping cold, teeth clenched, tears frozen, white stone on powdery snow- cloak dragging through, leaving her trail.
