I know how that shell of a person became that way.
I know how she suppressed spontaneity and repressed flair
You know the person that makes you wonder about their past
At what point did it happen?
How did she get there?
She used to be someone.
She was in love.
And that's it!
The four letter word that wreaks havoc on "supposed to".
Each day recovering from unfathomable ache,
all that she dreamed of
Hints of hip,
glimpses of glam,
faux facades of the who that never was
surface now and then.
It's pitiful if you know.
If you really know.
Really pitiful.
The shell drives next to you in her unassuming sedan,
eyes glazed as she listens to NPR.
Facts.
Facts are safe.
Music is memories.
Each day passes...
as they're apt to do...
and the shell ossifies.
No tears, no art, no wondering why
No passion, no chaos...
A shell.
Simple. A mollusk.
But you can tell.
That poetry
once permeated
each and every cell.