The Dead Girl

She sang of grassy fields and dusty plateaus

Thrilling, reeling

Scarlet lipstick smeared on the dashboard

And dirty palms and looks

Stories scattered between Nobokov and Tolstoy

Chocolate ice cream at sunset

The full-fledged night

With the dampened dirt

And the ever present crescent in the sky

Her heart is an opus

In sync with the drummer boy

And his silent drum

She listens to the sounds of

Deadened dreams of poetry and humanity

Left to ashes and dust in the wind

Beauty is left to a façade

Of paint and chemicals

And life is but a mirage of dreams

Love disguised as lust

Lust disguised as love

Rock and roll streaming from a phonograph

A twin sized mattress in an empty room

As empty as her heart

As soulless as her gaze

Blue like the dye bleeding out of her hair

Her mind tattooed with lyrics

Her wrists tattooed with scars

Her shaking hands

And awkward glances

At the girl standing near in the dark

The bass drum rattles her bones

And buzzes the tin of her can

As she thrums with the music in the basement

As she closes her eyes and screams

For life is but nothing

If not a very painful dream

As reckless as the punk

In her torn black jeans

As hopeless as her alarm clock

That never goes off

For life is for the living

But she is deceased