Matchbox empty, lock the door behind cold air advancing print in glass design.
A broken voice recording has her smile a story in picture prose.
She's lost her mind.
Armed with the catalog of dreams she's tried
to forge and to fashion all too great in size.
Praying for sleep it's getting too late tonight
to visit the photographic.
Lost in time,
Weekday waiting, frozen fading,
but will you ever find your color in the sky?
Stained glass pattern, singing Saturday,
bearing so much indiscretion in disguise.
Early alarm clock Monday by her side
with numbers and formulas to bid her rise.
She's locked in a reverie much to suprise
and charming the spells from within her melting eyes.
She's loosely tending happy endings.