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An elegant dress she fearlessly wears
to place the needle on the record spin.
To live out dreams that have long since sunken.
Dance the design of her alluring lie.
An array of inventions like frail threads
That in time will tangle and break and tear.
So soon she awoke with the slightest tear,
The dress in the closet, never been worn.
Her confident beauty now just a thread
of thoughts that her dozing mind’s eye could spin.
But here she could do nothing more than lie
quite still and into a dream she would sink.
For after submerged, completely sunken,
the great facade of reality’s torn
and it is life not dream that is the lie.
She lights candles and sets the table ware
for guests that arrive instead of spinning
odd excuses that just hang by a thread.
She smiles and makes conversation, threading
through the smooth gliding company to sink
a kiss on his cheek as he takes her hand to spin.
They float as one soul, never to be torn.
Romance that renders her never wary
that pleasure and cheer could all be a lie.
For in this figment her happiness lies.
Intertwined there in the radiant threads
that wildly spring from a mind too weary
to resurface reality that sunk.
But every sunrise she’s suddenly torn
from the beautiful fantasy she spun.
She stares at the ceiling, her head spinning
concocting the next of her freeing lies.
So she can slip away when the night tears
into the daylight, dousing the suns threads.
She returns to her lovely world, sunken
again into the radiant dress she wears.
Again she can spin with the love that threads
together her lie in the land sunken
in the ever torn mind, ever so worn.