Most of us tend to take the sweetest of knowing time on earth
Settling ourselves softly down upon, to break borders by

Herself
A wheeled whispering-chair wherein, deadlocked dreams recklessly, realistically die

She’s been failing to notice the exit signs for her own good
Been endlessly fitting-in to make some sort of sense
Of nothing at all

Still listens
Yet, this calling-card fire by her opportune eyes shall WIND itself up regardless
Of that,

of this
Such a so simple literary insinuation put forth by lonesome, spell-bind… ahem, BLINDED her

She is writing to make up the deciphered in-between – where a girl’s multi-menued mind either wildly shimmers to wisely shine
Or loses its sensual appeal
Feels these creative things that trap birds upon convoluted wires

Didn’t he, Leonard sing it oh so very purposefully latter century

False steps prepped electric, eclectically eccentric or born bust
We’ve been watching but will only ever give over a gift of life immortalised so soon as she has taken herself off
To duly die

Bye-bye, sweet disheartened Sylvia P.

These are my posthumous eyes
You longed for the touch of our unfamiliar minds

Far earlier than we did care to comprehend the waning of – wanting for – yours

Call us these left-behind, too-little-too-late literary leopards
Who love to long to devour only ever our own(er)

Is it, all of this, fantastically inescapable?

Agonised impenetrably? Rooted to the truthful spot – her war with words has been killing her kindly

Above and beyond behind, the giant candelabra dances bottom-drawer suggestively insignificant

Offers a flicker of hope to no-one but only her galloping ghost of suicidal yesteryear

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