Wilted...

Carved statuettes left uncoloured,

painted in dust by four white walls hiding misery,

sun dried flowers

and

old bottles of perfume,

stare at each other. Potpourri...

Besides the window sill

grieving like a widow still,

raising a proverbial toast sardonic

breaking her cocoon catatonic

a mind aging faster than her face.

Once upon a time there was a smile,

on this wretch that time hath buried,

she loved the lens

and

lullabies of mantelpiece men,

none so ceramic as the Adonis she married

From lass to liquor the lackey sidled

and her Home burnt as she Fiddled

much like Nero

Can one forgive these, two proverbial, fallen Heroes?

She clung to moonshine

as snow and drunks to shiny pavements,

her mind clouded

now unsurrounded

by the Who's Who that adorned her engagements.

The stories mounted yet the mass shifted gaze,

the infidelity dropped from page to page,

after all even the stink of gutter

is news for as long as the people mutter!

The path to her gilded home in tinsel town,

it seemed was a forbidden World,

She became a play,

laughed at each day,

from four to six, at Theatres it unfurled

Suitors eye her unsightly state,

their greasy fingers on her estate,

like bridesmaids to be bequeath,

to clutch the awaiting wreath

They say Vanity is a precursor to insanity,

her Pride was an ignoble profanity.