Three women on a stage
Shadows rooted and fleeting
A diary. An encyclopedia. A cello.
Wander lost between the margins
The first she is disheveled and dirty
A pale white face in imagined threads
The second she is tidy and clean
Gorged on knowing with each anxious minute
The third she is young and fair
Existing echoed in the strains of her music
They don’t turn left-or-right
Eyes never cast about
Blink and they will lose their way
Each pacing and racing a familiar path
Spacing. Running. Searching.
Not leaving. Not arriving.
A diary forgotten with yesterday’s pain
Treading on the same un-turning page
Only the cello escapes
When only the sun remains
(oh the tragedy)
Then even time will quietly close
Their last door