Before the Eyes Crack (original)
For a minute she looks famous
like a vase full of daisies,
or maybe she's just tired,
so tired, her eyes are shiners
without steaks, and her hair
is toppled on the top of her head
in a mound much like you'd see
at a bakery - the chef's hat,
only softer and lazier, like
tassles, and it falls in drapes,
hiding one side of her face,
as if she were a window,
a window in the morning,
attempting to keep out the break
of an early day, that tight grip
of strangling light tapping shoulders
with urgent questions, stinging necks
like the bite of a thousand bees
Rewrite 1:
For a minute she looks famous
like a vase of white daisies,
but she's really just tired.
She's so tired her eyes are shiners,
swollen without steaks, and her hair is tassles
falling in lazy drapes, hiding parts of her face
as if she were a window.
Her heavy hand wipes the hairs away,
and her eyes like clams slam tighter,
strangling the tapping light,
and its urgent questions,
stinging her peeking shoulder
like the peck of a thousand singing birds.
Rewrite 2:
For a minute she looks famous
like a vase of white daisies
as her eyes dart in this dance,
and her hair in tangles
falls in lazy drapes,
hiding parts of her face
as if she were a window.
Her heavy hand wipes the hairs away,
and her eyes pinch in two tight fists,
strangling the morning's tapping light
and those urgent questions,
stinging her peeking shoulder
like the peck of a thousand singing birds.
Rewrite 3:
(new title: The Hermitess)
For a minute she looks famous
like a vase of white daisies.
Her closed eyes dart in this dance,
and her hair in tangles
falls in lazy drapes,
hiding parts of her face
as if she were a window.
Her heavy hand wipes the hairs away,
and her eyes pinch in tight fists,
strangling the morning's tapping light,
stinging her peeking shoulder
like the peck of a thousand singing birds.
And she doesn't know that the night has left
its tracks across her face in indented vines,
blooming up her arm which now lies limp
over a vase of white daisies.
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