NUMB

A vile dream and all is pain,
Twitches, twists on the nights winding way,
Come morning the dream is gone,
A faint tremor and then she falls into unperturbed calm.
A chair to sit on, peering with those doused eyes,
She sits still for the sullen artist,
Who walks in with his sullen stride.
A brush stroke here and a stab there, a frown and then a disgusted cry,
‘Smile you hag. Give me a better picture to paint! Don’t sit there like a waxen display!’
Nothing.
‘Art thou dead? Art thou dead?’ they scream in her face,
No, not yet the doctor declares.
‘O but she sits so still, O but she hears not what he says.’
‘Slap her, make her cry, O let her stir, she is the bride!’
Again, again, the vague princess shaken and jabbed,
Trembling lips, a tiny tear,
Appreciative smiles, glad cheer…
And then they abandon.
The artist satiated, stabs, strokes, swipes his brush,
Stands back to look at his piece,
Stares back a pale dame in lonely colours.
‘Art thou dead? Art thou dead?’
‘No, not yet.’