8pm.
She's a quiet desperation,
lonely, impatient.
A mess without consolation,
Running into herself,
over
and
over
the Queen of abdication.
The crown she tossed into the sea of frustration
The crown she lost to the sea of self-mutilation.
She's so full of empty,
sometimes it hurts to try resuscitation.
Sprinting for the bridges,
lest to find them in dis
association.
Insincere in determination,
insufficient heaves and throws
and bottomless blows
to capitulation.
She's dishonest;
She's afraid;
Ignores all intuition
Still,
Our little Pearl of habituation
found her throne in the chaotic
speckled,
dangerous,
whirlwind of disintegration.
And there she goes
she goes
she goes
Still,
The crown she tossed into the sea of frustration,
is the crown she lost to self-mutilation.
