the horror of the living dead
the fear of standing in between
the will to move the line, to redraw it.
Withdrawn, silent yet not peaceful
a stormy shaped circus in her head
dirt and remains from joy of another day
a heart that doesn't beat but it's there.
She doesn't speak for she's gone
her eyes don't see her ears don't hear
nothing can move her except for the wind
nothing can change her moribund spirit.
You may wonder what left her crippled
and the answer is love
because she tried to survive but she didn't succeed
she now just wanders, she's a broken doll
with whom you can't play anymore.
Mademoiselle Juliettè,
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