She waits, watching
Seemingly so strung out in one aspect or another that it cannot but hurt
Everyone else but herself, because a rather soothing subconscious gets to strut its tippy-toed stuff first-off
Oh so softly
Working all kinds of wonders ’til slipping into absolute overtime, beneath a begging-to-be-pierced surface
Her utterly concentrated face portraying all kinds of peculiar nothing, perfectly out of touch with ‘their’ perceived reality, whilst the far more emotive mechanics of her inner mind manage to find a surefire, pure as quicksilver way
All in and around an immaculate calm
All of it bubbling yet never quite enough to brim itself to the full aforementioned surface
Not just yet
Only ever when it truly does matter most – a threateningly necessary procedure
Petrifyingly so
Finally piercing, in the name of these other artists at least
The ones who will finally give in and fall at her bejewelled feet
Repeat, replicate – happy to be pretenders all of their own awareness

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