She Wrote Herself In A Page Poem by comatose

she wrote herself in a page
she's the hands on her face quieting down the chanting of her years:

life's a cut on the wrist and its beauty's a shroud
an elusive mirage you hunt down like a fraud

she minded herself like a grave
her meager ration of calm
its her balm for her psalms of unhappened goodbyes and its mirror that is herself

this could be indelibly sweet if not for her chains
forever present in her eyes to block the sun's rays
this could be her one sweet goodbye if not for the haste
of her embittered hands and her tired teary gaze