It is but a soulless gaze,
a marble reflection only.
A mirror image stolen
from the early 1900’s
and imprisoned within stone.
Not quite high enough
for vertigo
but just enough
to be mostly ignored.
104 is far too long a life
with over two thirds spent
rotting alone in an asylum.
‘All New York Bows Down
To The Real Miss Manhattan’
or rather a concrete replica.
Delusional and demented
after mercury plotting.
She survived a murderer’s
attention only to be spat
into the uncaring arms of ruin.
Buried in an unmarked grave
and people still stop to admire
her perfect features
in many places around the city
but never where she truly is.
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography
published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids
instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet.
Buy his book ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096
So sad, meaningless fame.
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