Timelessly I stare
searching my own eyes,
hoping that my reflection will tell me more
than I myself can feel.
In the mirror, a dull look
robbed of some life
(or, perhaps, willingly given) she
does not look like the girl who
waited happily, hair curled, face soft
and bright, hoping that he
would notice some shade of beauty in her
some spark of light, would see
that her hair shone against the green and
gold of the dress, that her lips curved
for him like they did for no other.
She hoped he wouldn't
see how her makeup was carefully concocted
to imbue her with an implied naturalness -
because this is the lie that she is, a
natural unnatural, with every movement, almost,
orchestrated, to show advantage-
She thinks too much, and in those thoughts sets down
imagined futures,
ensuring - unknowingly, ironically - that
if they were to finally come, there would be
no more spring of truth in them, no fresh authenticity, because it is all
an act, a play, a farce, a comedy at least rehearsed... oh!
Why did she imagine? It has killed her.
