Her lashes locked in slumber,
conscious dreams in her unconsciousness.
Her feet and fingertips look pale but
the rhythmic rising is apparent upon scrutinizing sight.

Her lids shut out judgmental eyes,
unsuspecting ears hear no slight sounds.
Her Olfactory sweatshop is closed for some protest
and the warmth of my hand brings her no reaction.

For her, the sadness,
glistens around town,
and her bucket is poised,
to fall upon the ground.
And in the kingdom of the living,
this queen is on the brink.
As she stoops in her mind
into her bucket for a drink.
And we wait with the weight,
and the daunting dilemma;
Our action,
her inaction,
Decisions and trauma.