Treasure Island

ANNE P LadeeAnne MURRAY

(APRIL,27TH,1944 / POCATELLO, IDAHO)

Dancing On The Edge Of A Pin - Death Of An Angel


She was a tiny, angel of a woman,
mindlessly moving in a chemical haze
Her heart barricaded, tormented from her long, lonely days...
From dancing on the edge of a pin


Mindlessly moving, dreaming images with her feet
on a dirty old stage- in an audience of men
Eyes not enticing- lips falsely inviting
Crumpled, dollar bills...
stuffed carelessly into her thin string of silk,
listening to a mindless, endless beat...
While dancing on the edge of a pin


Her bare dirty feet-
so helplessly calloused with wear- her bells and symbols clacking,
dancing without memory, in a world of deceit
Twirling, swirling on a bar room pole-
trying to live her poor, shoddy role
Stripped of dignity,
Ripped from grace
that's imposed upon her lifeless soul


Her teardrops falling-slowly slipping, silently dripping
leaving behind a clear, salty trace
as they slide down her cheeks-like icy blue, watery veins
on her weary, tear stained face


She dances mindlessly without care-from one seedy bar to another
in faded, jaded memories blurred by her past
Through misty, watery depths she bleeds-
trying to quench a thirst so deep
in her hemorrhaged, sedated heart-
so worn, so torn by her dreams that did not last…
While dancing on the edge of a pin


She slides down the pole performing her dance
floating in an igneous swirl of aqueous, diluted anesthesia
Demons eating and devouring her soul
through her darkened descent of amnesia
In painful depths that twist and turn-
in her nebulous, muddled reality of unspeakable memories
that cannot exist in her mind-
lest they drive her deeper into a shattered demise


Childhood dreams, stripped cruelly of their parts
her mind wanders in a foggy, semi-conscious state of grace
as she mindlessly dances on her stage
with a dazed look on her innocent, delicate face


Cheap, neon lights bathe trashy, shoddy floors
in seedy, darkened bars that smell of stale cigarettes and booze
Dangerous, dingy, low-rent neighborhoods
leased by lurking, lewd, slovenly men who try to grope her every move


She sits on an old, bar stool, sipping amber colored whiskey
from a dirty, shot glass
waiting for drunk, salacious men to approach, handing her their grimy, rumpled cash…
As she dances on the edge of a pin


Ten dollars a dance...
to the tune of one weary, old song
or twenty dollars an hour to some drunk, bleary eyed man
she'll dutifully belong


Shadowy features...
biting at her heels
Unnamed creatures...
gripping, clawing at her heart
like broken shreds of steel
Her soul so bruised from so many wounds that cannot heal
A fragile, beautiful soul, so battered, so used...
From dancing on the edge of a pin


One morning the headlines of the daily news printed one more, sad obituary
of a beautiful soul so badly abused
Her parents were sent a note
from the bar where she'd last worked
that said…

'Your daughter used to work here
but now that she's dead...
will you please stop by and pick up what's left...
of her clothes and shoes'


~

Submitted: Wednesday, July 18, 2012

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