How's my
soul he kept as if
spun in a bottle memento
mori, added to which I
butterfly wing, half moult.
Green on the edge, it laughed
like unbeautiful sitting in a
beauty mask I mistook
many things. Took
he many things it's good
to talk about. You decipher
that's a hidden message, sure scrambled
months and months of jigsaws it's good
to talk about in a safe place not
being safe, she said wet by the
shower curtain. Not place specific, only
products of time, she
said stood in the middle
of a month, these
things are lost in their disguise
as less important. Lives
without meaning do you feel nothing
to the extent you push
under carpets what who
deemed a crummy memory; broken
I fear by that
headless lack. Strength
in a form, like lacking; comes dressed
like absence and is recognised. I masquerade
my defiance. Party favours.
No tears over buried masques
under which you are actually beautiful.

Copyright © Marianne Morris, 2004.