The morning comes
But dawns no more for you
Tamora Hutt …
++++----++++----
Whose tears will rain on your unnurtured form
Child-woman
Frail as daylilies
And short-lived.
I have no history just my art
And a photograph to guide my careful strokes –
Who is this with you princess, smiling then,
Where is he now?
Will he follow in train your final carriage ride,
Snow White that never was a fairytale bride?
The tracery of veins still blue, the skin …
No line or wrinkle, smooth as ice
Is cold – how old were you?
++++----++++----
For whom do I apply my art?
The man in his designer suit who’ll pay the bill,
The woman with sculpted nails and face,
Who hurried on to some other place,
++++----++++----
But dropped in the dress
So tissue fine and snowflake white
(Was it last night?) –
For you Tamora Hutt I hide the bruising, mend
The broken skin and blend
The colours of my palette to disguise
The horrors drowned within your eyes.
I am your bridesmaid, I’ll attend you well –
No tears now child, no tears, not ever again,
They shall not see the desolation of your final hours
I have repaired
You to your bridal bower –
Rest now …
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