there is no comfort to be found
within victorian convention
this captivity no creature should endure
no good can come from listening to strawberry blossoms whispering
no monstrous appetite sated by the peeling of yellow wallpaper
retreat is not a form of living
it is the wrought iron gate to demise
against the canvas of the city
i choose to paint my remaining days
a place where movement indicates life
and pastured cemeteries
are but an ending
i have not yet written