Her dry, skeletal limbs
Stretch wearily to the ceiling,
Exhibiting skin
Cracked and peeling
Under sickly, synthetic
Light; her weird grin,
Almost poetic,
But not quite worthy of mention,
Not a fitting expression
For her stance,
A gesture so pathetic.

She reaches toward heaven
With three earnest fingers,
Groping at nothing but
The spring heat which lingers
Of our warmest day in far too long;
She doesn't seem to acknowledge that,
However: she is pressed strong
By sorrows of the passing winter,
Few and flat,
But scar her still,
A silent silver throng.

Her hands are
Pleading for mercy, I finally realize,
And it is for
Her vague disguise
That I have had such hesitation
To give her assist;
For how to help a thing without manifestation
Of breath or movement,
Still struggling a struggle
With what does not exist,
A fatal fascination.