Ignore her and perhaps she will cease to exist,
Out of sight, out of mind, nevermore,
Though she dearly wishes, it does not work like this,
Ever present, ever looming, evermore.
Oh, to be a wisp, a whisper,
Or a whistle which fades in the wind,
An echo which dies in silence,
Not condemned to days without end.
A passing thought or fleeting glimpse,
Nonexistent for merely a day,
Wishing it were so and knowing it is not,
Never ceasing yet withering away.
Sweet peace eludes, escapes embrace,
An enigma which does consume,
An illusion, pure fantasy, mere dream,
More a longing than a thought in full bloom.
Though her ambition, her intention, her desire,
Unreachable it forever remains,
Her smile hides tears which linger and flow,
And her sanity she continues to feign.
Looks away, hides her eyes, masquerades,
As her glance she expertly diverts,
Flees the pain, the darkness, the torment,
Seeks serenity her gaze does subvert.
Cannot will it away or pretend not to notice,
Her frailties on glorious display,
Not a shadow nor specter from days long past,
As her pale gaunt image at once betrays.
No matter her efforts, her pleas,
Subtle whispers of a soul forlorn,
The face in the mirror remains,
Ever present, ever looming, evermore.
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