Tepid hues once watercolour dreaming splashed,
dancing in pastels on her blank canvas.
These dreams, a warm, worn bracelet of pearls-
handed down through generations
from mother to daughter
ought to give her the feathers to fly.
Her wings malted,
she chased her Icarus through
pursuing her gnarly light,
giving birth to shadowed resonance
when the note was pure.
When nothing remained
but ashes of quest she questioned eternity,
spitting at philosophy with raised middle finger.
Shamed, tired, bitter.
That oasis of tapestry remains
locked in a box
behind blue eyes
more than they ever dared to dream.