The fly drifts about the girl’s face,
Its unblinking eyes meeting her vacant stare,
She felt too heavy
To move,
Too heavy
To breathe.
A barren stage lay in her head
Filled with chairs meant for musicians,
Long dead,
Their brass bells unattended,
Their songs left hanging,
Suspended mid-air,
As specks of lost skin and displaced dust
Waft amongst the playhouse rafters.
The maiden’s lips remained agape,
Her mouth stiff like the yawn of a corpse,
As it becomes the home
Of the lingering pest,
Who was not one to forsake
So comely a nest.
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