2016 01 15
Camilla lies on tattered couch at noon,
watching her cats chase each other in play,
and sips hot cocoa while ignoring snow
that swirls against cracked window of lost hope.
"I fall fast forward through film of my life,
staggering home from another party drunk
on intoxicating hope that my life
will mean something more than endless routine
of eating and sleeping, and generous fate
will assign me to play dramatic role
so my star will shine on important stage
of history, and people will recall
my true name and face with adoring love.
But I fear no director manages
passionate drama of life, and I drift
without purpose through labyrinth of fame,
smiling for cameras that record my face
glowing with elegant grace, but my words
vanish in wind, and I am nothing more
than pretty face and cute smile that enchants
fans who like my photos on Instagram.
We have no divine reason to exist
so we chase rainbows for elusive joy,
rushing forward in swift expectant lust
till all faces and places blend in stream
of blurred memories that all fade to white.
My whole life is now my own endless film
of photos and inspirational quotes
that stream in flashing words on screen of glass
as I invent meaning for my own show.
I am that dead tree sleeping in mute snow."
Camilla sighs then activates eye phone
and scrolls through photos of her best school friends,
clicking like and typing sweet messages
followed by explanation marks of love,
limp wings of sad listless angel who floats
on fluffy clouds of vanishing desire.
Voices whisper in hollow skull of glass.