The ankle lost in snow,

turns,

the girl knows, dipping powder,

making granite fair,

but not so.

For the razor shows the impure,

the lack of refined lash

to fan the fire,

the kohl dripping down a path,

and the lie of love aghast,

seeing her in the cold light of day.

Every autumn, she faints

under the brittle knuckles,

the path, obscene, a circle upon circle,

spinning lithograph,

locking her up fast, no deed undone, no lesson learnt.

"She should choke on her mad,"

and the  white coats button up. They line her mouth with glue.

If she talks she must not eat,

if she walks, she must retreat,

all the learning is defeat,

and will stuff the smile with a cork.

Countries lost, music fasted,

she is no more a scholar just

a selfish scar, weeping,

and what is the lasting for? If lasting is not for?

And if the lasting is to endure? Why could she not explore?

Confusion dieted the cure

and it is not allowed.

Repent, repent, repent, the sickness is spent,

but it dents. A cobweb stronger than a jaw.

 

 

The ankle is lost in snow, the girl knows,

she has no where left to go,

and her courage pattern before,

is a mirage,

far and never more.