Her home with the smiling cat,
And the bed of roses painted red,
Dripping with scarlet lies,
Tumbling ink and petty complaints,
The stiffening of the mercury in the thick air,
The sickening of the nonsense words unspoken,
Her home is neither up, nor down,
Where existence is futile,
Save for when a young girl looks into the mirror,
The same as any other home.
