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