Losing grip on reality

Always brings a sad Messenger

As the machine’s whirring fades

And the IV’s need not drip.

As she slumped in her chair

With two subtle drops rolling

Down her porcelain cheeks

Eyes scanning the monitor

As a visitor enters.

To quell the sadness,

Speaking of greatness

Of the broken, and of

Two boys who gently tease

La custodia perezosa

To bring out a laughter amidst the tears,

The bleeding mascara

And faded pink lipstick

The visitor is no Machiavelli

That is for certain

And surely is not a satirist when

The ends of justified the means

of being a chivata.