Eleanor Roosevelt Rigby

Cold serial days

Hours marked by channels 

The tv feebly flickering back 

The beat she used to know by heart

Reading Braille under those fingertips

Like memories, ones she can to point to

But that are no longer real 

A connection turned to static 

A knife turned to skin 

Still life replacing real life 

And a technicolored dream turned sepia 

The only proof left to place 

Their little wandering hands on 

The mirage was always unrequited 

Parched lips whispering words that sinply evaporated 

Stumbling, sandy toes that were never met halfway

And a scorched, sunburnt heart that time didn't healed 

A story that she could never convince 

Those plump, beaming lips and smooth, wriggling toes 

Wasn't a fairy tale 

So she cut out the faces 

Scarred the beauty into submission

And burned away the rest

As though the lies would die in the cooling ash

As though it was that easy to forget 

But how do you stop a killer

Infinitely more meticulous than the rest?