She remembered the cold clouds,
The black statements
In a country no longer heard of;
Voices once like a long needle in an arm,
Tattooed over with government ink.
She might be white, she might be shy,
But she never stooled;
Rather, played deaf and dumb on a stringless harp,
Empty and ignored.
Her fingers wagged, her mind went blank,
Yet, she survived awhile;
Once a dream girl, now an engraving in a mirror,
It knows nothing. Like a vacuous sheet on a clothesline.
She remembered the men, their fingers arranging her life,
Their pallor white as a marriage dress,
Surgeons implanting the silver disk in her head,
She doesn’t speak;
Her hands are full of words, yet muzzled by her tongue.
But what about her eyes? Tortured, now dark
Funnels covered and blind, hedged into a silence.
Empty shell of her old self, she sleeps.
Dreams pierced by a crying; she is guilty of nothing.
Copyright © 04/28/18 lance sheridan®