Coming to terms with hard unfinished things by buying soft furnishings. Somewhere in the wings, she’s waiting til she sings. All bravado, all flare. Then it goes, like it went before and her heart is as heavy as her throat is sore and her mind just skips and she can’t even scream because it was probably just another of her vain little dreams.
Coming to terms with cushions like candles like curtain like colour. But this time when she flies she won’t find any cover. It’s all just dressing, of make up of sham. Clutched deep in her soul and out of her hands. All sadness, all bare.Then it’s coming, like it hasn’t before and her head is begging and her heart breaks more and she can’t act the fool or take to the stage because it’s not about her and she’s no longer that age.
Coming to terms with whatever comes next. The keyboard conquerer spies useless gadgets. Of perfectly functional, practical sense with all time consuming tomes so completely dense. Order one or more or sit on your fence. All fear and resilience.