Thursday, 12 May 2011

Trinket Box

A paintbox girl in the mirror frame

Hallway washed out to sepia.

Gemma is swinging the locket of Mary

She's wearing high heels

For lounge bar climbing.

A mystery of perfume

Sent from her mother

Leafing through a scrapbook of hopes

Torn from the dusting.

She leaves charms

In her way to the door

The key on a chain, hypnotising.

She's polished her girl to cut glass.

Gemma has around her throat

A silver rope from her father.

The clasp is strong

And she knows the cost.

He's welding a ring to cage her.


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