As I wake on ruptured carpet in this unfamiliar hall, it reminds me of last night’s dinner, so strangely consumed in an unguarded dining room; silken and sad, a lady’s tragic performance unfolded – as though in soup frenzied, chaired by a sick hourglass unavoidable, dancing as if no-one cared.
Wayward perhaps, or perhaps overused, she could captivate still with her life-wearied mouth by the manner she spoke and the way that she dared, yet her voice – so robust, yet dampened, unsettled, attacked by unchanneled despair.
In furious concept of sleek repetition she roughed out sublime her inglorious plan, then balled herself up in this silken, sad room, falling mute to attention as if disappeared.
This unfortunate memory placed in a jar shall forever be shelved in my cupboard. Paper may hold it yet wont to explain this beauty-despair never seen.