Her decline into obsolescence is near-perfect.
Her stiff upper lip curves into a ghastly smile
she never once assembled in life.
Her illusions are mythic in proportion,
as indecipherable as Sanskrit.
Her florid feet have stopped dancing,
grown weary of rhythm.
Her folded hands, emptied of promises
and flowers she can no longer deliver,
pre-arranged.
The cereus is now deep with silence.
The pale moon flutters weakly, quiet
in a sky suddenly bereft of song.
She will become accustomed to this different fable,
this new and ancient shroud,
given time.
Adding your comment:
Megz, you (or anyone else, for that matter) can use any picture or background I've got. If I know the artist, the credit will be in my author's notes. Thanks, Sweetie. 
Nuhhh uhhh. Quite the contrary, actually. 
I appreciate your thoughtful words. I've been writing more "tribute" poems recently (for lack of a better word). I've done a few for Sylvia, several for Anne Sexton, one for Edna St. Vincent Millay and a bunch for Emily Dickinson. All are on my "inspired by famous people" list. One of my own favorites is this one:
