Suzette's Song

A dirge

There is no grandeur in the recesses of her 

 

unconscious. Lost in the confines of a sunken fortress, 

 

she does not sense the sun-drenched landscapes or the 

 

Pacific sprays. There is immutable silence; the tiara she wears 

 

on her brow, a parchment with a poem rolled, tied, and fallen 

 

from her hand. She is dressed in taffeta and does not dream 

 

of escape. Nor will she ever.