Undone

There is a woman in a black box.

She cannot breathe, she cannot see,

But she can hear, all of life’s melancholy melodies.

.

Are they coming from the abandoned piano-keys?

A hypnagogic lullaby for those with broken dreams?

For those with unfinished projects and suppressed memories?

But she is not ready to sleep.

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There is a woman in a black box.

She cannot eat, she cannot run,

But she can shrink, to the size of a breadcrumb,

To escape her dissolving mind.

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She cries out, “Is this what I’ve become?”


Directionless, disconnected, numb,

Lifeless, dejected, burdensome.

.

.

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What’s done cannot be undone...

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No, not this one.