How beautiful are flowers
Pressed between two sheets of glass
Preserved in eternity in an odourless,
Colour-draining existence
Like when she thought she was
Moving, touching, building
The background music was grandiosely baroque
And the images she saw were real and vivid,
Years she spent in this ideal, fascinated, saturated
Until one day she tried to move and realised
She would have to just sit and wait.
Yes, no, yes, there was no mobility here, no
Fluid, grainy, joint-creaking, none of that
So she screamed and screamed in a tone
That had no sound, kicking with phantom limbs
Until she died, as perfectly still, as the moment of her birth
