The smell of her powder is feminine and faint,
The high beams groan, and shadow peeling paint.
Chrome faucets corroded, their finish stripped bare,
The door hinges creek, and rust in humid air.
The flowers are dead in their pots, the soil is dry,
The oak tree is gnarled; amber tears long since dried.
The roof is damaged, and caves with age,
The windows are broken; frames covered with lustrous sage.
The shimmering shadows cast down upon her face,
Transparent and divided; incarnadine vase.
White lace turned yellow, crusted and cracked,
Her heart is now hollow, no longer intact.
