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PORTRAIT OF THE FALLEN
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JOURNAL #27 one shattered drop
a well of ivory
consuming such a carefully
painted plateau of stoic flesh
life unapologetically evaporated
leaving a mask of the woman that was just there
moments ago
behind
to be viewed and judged
the wave of her obvious torment
generously swelled
to share itself with the room's curious
onlookers
eclipsing all conversations being held
by just that slightest hint of her devastation
that one damn, telling tear
everyone knew
how could they not
a harlot in ladies wear is undulating her well
used filthy wares amongst them
the laughter of their public ridicule ripples up
and coils like a snake
to whip at her desperation
to simply just disappear
yet that is not to be her escape
a foul tale upon the lips of society
for many seasons yet to come
but still
she must somehow try to separate herself
from the jaws of the voracious crowd
as their continued sneering barbs and taunts
claw her to social death
she whithers far from the aristocratic vine
she once so enjoyed
clinging to and manipulating
for no amount of sunlight nor water
can rescue this broken bloom
torn from the vine so viciously
and left trampled upon the ground
as something so small
and insignificant
her darkest fear
come to life
to be less than nothing
or even worse
despised.............
(written Sept. 6, 2002 8pm)
