she came stomping
through my life
in a pair of
dangerously high
concrete stilettos

mascara ran thick
down alabaster skin
the revolution
wasn’t worthy
of broadcast on
the most basic tier
yet she still
managed to cast
a funeral pall in
beautiful sorrows
across broadband
delusionary frequencies

buried in the ashes
carried by bittersweet
murmured hymnals
seeking salvation
in the wreckage of
futire imperfections