Constance sits.

She’s not really that ok,
Full of thoughts unsure.
…What to do…
Succumb to this impending tomb?
It looms;
But sleep is cruel and teasing.
Displeased by her internal monologues,
The cogs of these wheels have well and truly come off.
Cough as she passes you.
Stare averted, bounce in step converted;
A fake smile escapes,
Lips over teeth,
Never looking to see,
If her forced grin,
Ugly, like foreskin,

Has been received or beamed back to she…

As a pleasantry,
A necessity,
A matter of concerned pedestrian safety.

She will probably be ok,
Emptying thoughts as prose on a page,
Not going quietly into the dark of this cage,
Well,
At least not at this stage.

Thood.