strangers at the window

there’s someone in my head but it’s not me’    Pink Floyd 1973


she sits and stares
palid porcelain thin
waiting to be told
when to go

looking down to the woods
where dark birds wheel
in sensuous veils
eclipsing her view

they bring no comfort
from the tumble of
perilous voices she hears
that come to her un-invited

as the strangers at the window
who stole her daughters face
pinned it to the wall
with her certainty and will

and crouched by her knee
waking a smile from the past
with a stroke of her cheek
as fleeting as her breath

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