She looks like a purple plastic drum

On the linoleum floor in the kitchen.

The fear of her American Dream grows

In the garden of her mind.

She often speaks with her God

But is still not sure He exists.

Still wondering if it will even matter.

She knows all the names of her God

But when he calls her name,

She always pretends that she hasn't heard.

A feint whisper of "why" was her first word

She never realized it,

But was a martyr by association.

It always has been,

And will never be,

These freshly wrapped cellophane ideas,

In the ghettos of her mind.

She wears her opinions on her sleeve

But only when she's alone,

Or when it's safe.

She's a coward of the technological age.

Her thoughts were finished before they even had begun.

She forced herself to run at the first sight of fun

At the speed of a gun.

She only listens back wards.

Rules were meant to be broken.

She has no one to claim her

But that's exactly what she said.

A feint whisper of "why not?"

Were her dying words,

Tomorrow's the last day

Of the rest of her life.

05/22/2007

Author's Note: For a former friend and lover who is dying in a relationship that will never be.......

Posted on 05/22/2007
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