her madness
like hell’s
crossed roads
blacker than
where Holy
doesn’t stay
her pain
like super nova
she too
far into
that left
turn forrest
of life
among the
roads and
fine wines
French perfumes
church luncheons
insanity waits
for her
to step
off that
daily stage
like if
she were
perfectly happy
as the
summer in
a postcard
painted valley