Theres a woman in the corner,
A pink eerie mist creeps around her feet.
Theres a atmosphere of knowledge.
As if to this she is no foreigner.
Her eyes observe.
Her Skin is pale, white and young,
her lips are swollen, red, stark against her icy skin.
Her broken harp, now half strung.
Noone is watching.
She holds the instrument carefully.
She cradles it with her arm,
she shakes slightly, fearfully,
Her eyes remembering.
The garment she wears is perfect,
the dress and viel, simple, white and pure,
The gash across her chest its only defect.
She stares you down.
Her hair is long and greasy,
her posture, cowering and defeated,
her eyes lowered, her gait uneasy.
The others are watching.
The corner is empty,
of happiness and hope,
the image of opposites,
it holds plenty,
but I'm not there to help you cope.
Restring my harp's grace,
lift up my viel,
and look upon an empty space.
Ex
-EJ
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