life never had a plot
on the surface
undirected, like poetry in her sleep
it was like the autumn wind caught in a Polaroid frame.
the strings let her down everytime her fingers looked
for an answer instead of resonance even her
thickest paintbrush failed to
help it with a stroke of direction
but when she whispered to the
night, her fevered cries in the dry voice full
of desperation it told her in hushed tones ..
..its just a purple dream you need to weave
who cares to write the screenplay?