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Prognosis for the vagabond

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Your eyes will focus on the unprocessed fragments of attitude ebbing off her, simultaneously slinking down her slim shoulders, ricocheting off every inch of her refined body. Boiled and cooked stereotypes, articulated by “isms” I visualize. Drips it does. Cascades it does. But who does it? Ponder. Effecting all in her impulsive, unplanned path, she does.

Second glance: Piercing looks, analytical yet critical. Who is she? How much money does her daddy have? The subliminal questions reside in the whites of her eyes and perpetually contaminate her rotted soul.

Third glance: Lack of confidence, perhaps. Anguishing about your turbulent past...Lost cause; is it? Flaunting what she craves with her meticulous movements specially designed to suppress society. The glares manifest, as she picks apart her ever minimizing brain.

Fourth glance: You've been failed, have you not? The prevalence of seeing people 'of your kind' is not existent. Rags sore my vision where your clothing should be...and you're hair....A tangled mess, symbolizing your new path, not by choice. Plastic bags, hanging off every limb imaginable, are now her life, replacing her designer purses; obsolete. Dirt scatters her face, obstructing the 'woman' she once was. She is now the target of a different kind of stare, rather the one of envy that previously defined her persona. The stare she is now a recipient of is one of apathy and disgust, a lethal combination.

Fifth glance: Incredibly precious, she is. When you're around her, you can't help but feel complete. Though parenthood isn't a breeze, it's the most beautiful experience I've ever invested in. Her relentless crying is somewhat humbling, it has evolved into music to my ears.

Sixth glance: She's six feet under now. You can see the ground rising and falling, the distinct replica of her breathing. The energy in possession to her grave is irritableness, attracting even the most innocent bystanders by it's frightening force. When snow falls, is gathers on her grave, glistening daintily; it's anything but a metaphor for the wasted life, formed by society, that dominated her. At least she's heavenly disguised from the outside world now, exactly how she would have wanted it.





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