Mainly since I very rarely compose anymore. As usual, the creative route was a form of automatism; I attributed no particular meaning to this at the time it was written, even though the sentiment is obvious in retrospect.

Untitled

Her long hair undulates like lazy vapor
as the smoke from her cigarette does the same,
it blends with her skin, both white as paper.
She never remembers her birth-given name.

She walked to the window to see outside,
the frail glass was replaced with panes of lead.
Her story hid', down where the roaches hide,
she tried hard to recall what the pages said.

Between boards over the punctured walls
a rare plain of sun could blister her soul.
Perched atop a needle, she's yet to fall,
but trembles above a mile-wide hole.