When the window breaks
and it's dismemberment reeks through the seams,
all she can sense is the void between the pieces
while the spectacle of the whole is overwhelmingly beautiful.
So beyond the looking glass
but somehow obsessed with it's story.
Like the pastel flower's inclination over the pond
how many times does she have to look?
Tides thick with wreckage boil into shore
leaving their sea-glass behind,
drift wood frosted with flotsom
and nothing to say for herself.
The crispness of the colours is grating
the salience of sound, too much
the harshness of the hoarfrost is all she knows
what is she like?...
The sleep of reason produces monsters
in the wake of illusion we are calm
unbeknown to us the sky is falling
love her, and never let her go.
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