If she had thought
to look up
for one prescient heart-stopping moment,
perhaps she would have gasped
or grasped
and arrested herself.

As it was
she reigned by disdain
her inattention undivided
removed from the crowd
engrossed in her fiction
an anachronism
a stitch out of time
unravelling
whilst the others were knitting.

Leaves turned, stirred to flight
fast forward to the final chapter.
Hark, those herald angels wail
the fall of our beloved Lady Grey;
why, such a friendly face
and so well dressed
if somewhat uncoordinated,
not at all the figure
one would commonly expect
to have indulged
in deviant behaviour
on that reputable stage.

Beyond all comprehension
her circle closes in,
spinning fate
on her exigent plate
waiting for service.

Intoxicated by the prospect
crude-oiled hands remove the scenery
well-fed machinery
unveiled, unclean, all agleam.

Rumour clouds mutter
in voices condensed
yet no-one is here
to shed a tear.

Blur stills to Crack.
Buzz stings to Snap.
Connection severed...

She raises her head
above failing focus
feigning interest,
reluctant to leave
Lady Grey undeciphered;
they don't understand
states will rock, heads will roll.

She gasps, gapes
a cry escapes,
composure reasserts
an anonymous waste of face
deflecting an odious sneer.

Frost-bitten eyes
sublimate a glaze of shame,
give free rein to contempt
as her circle mutates
giving rise to a sphere,
under the influence,
riddled with cheer.

10/15/2003

Posted on 10/14/2003
Copyright © 2024 Laura Doom