In the tent of powder and lace
Vultures pick at a carcass
That feeds by hand
Longing to decay
Waits to hear the sound
Of their wings slowly heave
As they fly away...
Some will stay for days
There's maps in her wrists and arms
And the dust lies like snow around the bed
Glowing white
A sculpture of bone
Or a jewel
Like a crumpled distorted moon
Shivers in her mind
If she moves to near
It shatters so quickly
Leaves nothing behind
The old lady sighs
Sometimes when she lifts her eyes
The room has filled with flowing sheets of silk
There's maps in her wrists and arms
And the morphine surges terror bread and bliss
In the tent of powder and lace
She can hear some violins
Watches the strings...
Threading through the room

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