I stand, uncertain, swaying on unsteady feet
My hair is frenzied and frenetic,
Yet not nearly as scattered as my disparate face,
Worn by the countless years of water stains and rough hands,
It is an old book,
Perhaps useful for nostalgia,
But nevermore shall it be appreciated,
For the life and fire which burned brightly within.
My blouse, in contrast, is a sheet of white glass-
Cool and crisp, yet not hiding
The fragility of my fading heartbeat.
My arms are too long, stiff
They are like a pair of headphones used perhaps a month too long,
They can seldom perform the tasks intended with finesse
They fall, loose and limp,
To an unfortunate conclusion everyone knew to be inevitable
My footsteps are short, and imprecise
Like a curious infant learning the balance of itself,
And how to best combat cruel gravity
Yet I am no child.
I am a broken music box
It was my own hands which slipped
Yet it was gravity which broke me.