Iridescent blue-beige, polished with a soft cloth
After rough chiseling with precise tools over time.
The twilight of dying day fixates on the angles
And brings the girl in a swing
To true 3-D pale white flesh,
With flecks of blinding yellow lightning bug flashes,
Despite her porcelain restraints.
She sits, stagnant, still,
Hanging on by dear life to the ropes
Of her purgatory swing
Forever plastered with a painted on smile
Bright red and sassy and sap-worthy glistening
Like the ooze from a maple tree
That she yearns to smear her wee brittle fingers in.
The long vines of green ivy crawling up her swing
And the long-stem blood red roses braided into them
Only create a pretty picture for the observer
And do nothing for the subject
Who is trapped, fragile, miniscule,
And broken so easily by a slight or tap
When she becomes the fractured shards of an empty shell.