The Decayed Ballerina
brittle stained jagged fingernails
scratch against the splint hairs
of a cold weathered wooden elbow
an impatient clock had sapped
a once supple leather coat
now requiring constant mending
as homeless unraveling posed an inevitable ending
torn pockets spilled over
with a plethora of dead letters
hope had long ago delivered
its final walking papers
without care of return receipt
handmade trees with news of unease
spun unmercifully
into the arms of a brisk fall breeze
birds began their escape
into the mouth of another sun
a slow rise from a patinaed throne
on a benched park seat
a myopic vision of how cracks
are formed on overused and forgotten streets
she walks alone
to nowhere
a decayed ballerina
the place she is seen as most complete
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