She was never the carnal vessel of muted disdain
That her mother had been,
She was an unexplained happenstance, walking free
And learning the chemistry of childhood,
Like the first pack of cigarettes, and the last bullet
In the chamber,
A ballroom wildfire in its own right.

She inflected on the affairs of no one
In her lonely teenage years,
Breakfast had never accompanied sadness,
And she would not live purporting
The things she lacked
Were by some divine meaning or tryst.
It was just as it is, and she was not green for
Material objects, nor for matters of the heart.

Morning light streamed in through
The uncovered pane of glass, espied by the rising sun,
And the sinking city that it illuminated.
She lay still, and considered the winsome way
Her daughter would have smiled, had she
A face of which to call her own, or a life unborrowed.

The sheets were a warm veneer over her chest,
She felt safe, solemn with a secret.
Life had enveloped her, and whispered, taciturn,
Her soul had glanced too long.
Sinking, with eyes that had been closing for years,
Tired, and with no more than a
Drop of honey, she had just sped the process;

It was manifest destiny, and she waited at the door
Unchanged, still the girl her mother had raised,
And free to again explore, never more than
A block from home.

The End

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