Porcelain wanders the cold autumn pathways of her mind
each leaf, a memory, cascading around her feet waiting to be kicked aside and forgotten
bare branches clawing out of the bitter air ready to take hold of poor… poor… Porcelain
scarlet tresses fall across pale shoulders shield from angry eyes hiding in the gloom
her inner theatre recalling songs of yesteryear where, beautiful and reckless, porcelain danced
her pupils captured images long lost forgotten but always poor…poor…Porcelain remembers
the wild moss scented wind whips at her skin, each gust trying to open wounds from times of yore
she was wonderful then, she was wanted then, she alone poor…poor…Porcelain
underneath her cloak of night she still wears the dress, virgin white silk with gold trimming and diamonds
In the distance she hears the toll of the bell and feels the pull of the alter poor…poor…Porcelain
Never will it be your time to be happy, never will you hold his head to your bosom
No happy children playing in the snow screaming with joy at the old snowman and hit top hat
No love for you poor… poor… Porcelain no love for you at all.
She stumbles on the path, the pain of that day still strong, still eating her soul
Porcelain, at her alter, waiting for her love, laughing, longing and then pain, hate, detest
He would not offer her a ring, he would not pronounce his love under God
She looks around the chapel, crying eyes, screaming voices, weeping family
Samson, his best man, speaking to her in words she can not hear, sadness engulfing her, sorrow strangling her heart
Running down the aisle out of the church she screams to the heavens,
Porcelain falls, her face caught by the soft grass, spring dew cools her eyes and brings her to life
She runs through her forest leaves and branches grabbing for her, holding her, mothering her
The trees speak to her, telling her to stay, do not leave, be with us, love us, cherish us
Her pace quickens her gown being torn and ripped by thorns and bushes, on she runs poor…poor…porcelain
The wind calls, “run to him, run to you lover quickly whilst he still can” and in the distance she spies the crowd
She hears the moaning and smells the fear, she slows to a walk, not wanting to see but unable to look away
Here he was barely breathing, warm red blood oozing from his broken body lying prostrate
She falls and crawls to his head, cradles it in her hands and lifts to see his face for the last time
He breathes and passes, a single tear in his bloated eye, she looks to the heavens and screams for revenge
The dead tree lay smothering her lover, the thunder in the air a reminder of the passing summer storm
She feels arms surround her offering warmth and comfort; she asks for none poor…poor…Porcelain
And now she walks, remembering his laugh, reminiscing about his smile, trying to once again capture the taste of his lips on the wind.
Poor…Poor…Porcelain forever alone, forever in love, for ever.
Gold trophy winner
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