It’s all so unfortunate,
to come of age,
as a late bloomer in a forgotten destiny,
the lady of nothing but a dark eternity,
cycling through the same nightmares,
because you have all the imagination in the world,
but lack the ability to live in your pages.
At least my years had a little glamour,
because I was a fantasist,
and my tears have a little glamour,
because I wear the cheap mascara,
for the drama, when it runs, and runs,
right down my face,
when the world runs away from me,
and I’m alone in my garden,
bitter that the sun does not indicate any relief from the day I have been living, on and off for several months.