Poem

Perhaps she is what she once was, still.

Beneath week days and horoscopes, the heart still beats.

This is not an epic poem; there are no heroes or heroines, but

perhaps these are the only stories left, here where we live

at the ends of everything.

Monday is a liar of a day, and the rest of the week

When sense tells you that there is nothing in a Sunday?

Like a cliché, full circled to Shakespearian beat, weeping

for what all of her weeping achieved, once upon

silly, empty fairytale dreams.

She is trapped, like Sybil, to the dusts of time.

Crying wolf once makes everything lies, especially to liars.

Perhaps, by trusting in Wednesday, embracing woe

there is something to be gained, static

and steady though surrounded by change.

Perhaps she is what she once was, still.

Past tomorrows becoming yesterdays, as they will.

Dreams built upon wishes are foundations in sand,

fleeting whispers of structure, crumbling

as their dreamers will.