She hasn't words to fill the bloom
expanding when these certain things
they tap their toes into her rooms.

In hallways formed from fragile wombs
that phantom rained a glitt'ring dew,
they promised endless meadowed blooms,

but youth is cruel in its perfumes.
Elusive crystal-dwelling fool,
she danced in milk-prismatic rooms

a blind eye to the hecatomb
she'd offer for her stars' subdual.
In senesence, her fading bloom

now trots the mime in full costume.
She damns the world that played her cruel
and locks her doll into its room.

To dress her in the finest plumes
one flatters per the usual,
yet no more will she vibrant bloom.
A paper life lives in her rooms.