She stood on the shoulders of giants
shuffling on to a slow beat
in stone carved cravats —
dried ink down their backs.
She sat at her tea table
underfed — her pensive pen
drew the same lethargic symbols
in ink unwilling to reveal
another truth hitherto untold.
She tried to lay her heart bare
without anyone seeing
the pain beneath the words
her strength missed,
the
point — no return — bullseye
red paint
on the back of giants
strolling down memory lanes
to a beat too slow
for the living.