Maps In Her Wrists And Arms

In the tent of powder and lace

Vultures pick at a carcass that feeds by hand

Longing to decay

Waits to hear the sound

Of their wings slowly heave as they fly away

Some will stay for days

There's maps in her wrists and arms

And the dust lies like snow around the bed

Glowing white, a sculpture of bone

Or a jewel like a crumpled, distorted moon

Shivers in her mind

If she moves too near

It shatters so quickly, leaves nothing behind

The old lady sighs

Sometimes when she lifts her eyes

The room has filled with flowing sheets of silk

There's maps in her wrists and arms

And the morphine surges terror bread and bliss

In the tent of powder and lace

She can hear some violins, watches the strings

Threading through the room