Between the Glass Windows

The mannequin behind the glossy glass window, is
Stiff with rigor mortis.
Perfection in plastic, plastic restricts
Rigged, ram rod, eyes a fixation.
Alas! She is but dead!
But forced into a fate worse than death.
Beneath her pristine, prim, plaster cast,
Lived a staggering, star-gazing,
Dewy-eyed dreamer.
Mind, foamy as a Tsunami’s crest,
Eyes with the glimmer of Aurora Burealis.

Forces of indefatigable power could not avoid,
Splitting open new veins, rust-red, exposed.
Raw like red meat on a butcher’s hook.
They had hot molten plaster to
Seal the wounds and gushing arteries.
Like fresh cement over a criminals grave.
Crystallized, her silent scream

The mannequin behind the glass window.
With chiseled jaws and Dionysian bliss.
Isn’t she enviable?
Her torment is absurd to the vagabond,
Leaning and peering into that glass window.
Jealousy erupts and envy corrupts.

Though movable limbs and fertile womb.
She shares this universal despair.
But bounded by a plaster of a different kind.

Different plaster to numb different minds.