Ode to she

She spends hours, even days in the bathroom now
staring at the mirror- it stares back at her admiring
her dour existence, her haphazard hairs' wiring;
she looks as if she belongs in the world of 'thou'.

The shadows complement her one-piece dress;
it tells her perniciously that she is nothing but fair,
that her blotchy complexion accentuates her flair-
hitherto she could never truly egress nonetheless.

She clings to the corners, hiding her unaffable smile;
considered anathema before a glance to her visage,
maybe it is because of her stark lurid image
that she willingly sequesters under perpetual revile.

I've seen how she runs her spindly needle fingers
across pale Venetian wallpaper of haggard years,
leaving an ethereal trail of latent silver tears:
feelings that stay and for a moment lingers.

She is that vagrant with a charming warm home,
she is that lady with the uncanny eight legs,
she is that creature laying the hundred eggs,
and now you will see her tucked in her dome