There is a woman screaming.
There are violins
There are misfits
There are witnesses.
There is a murderer in the wind.
Acid tongue, she grows like daffodils.
She sees out the window.
Dressed in white, with a tan hat.
She thinks not much of it at all.
And then the knock comes on the door.
And the finger is on the door bell.
And she answers.
And he waves his hand, asks her if he can come in.
And she is never seen or heard from again.
And the song ends.
And the encore begins.
She has a master. It is cold and dark in her castle.
They say those with glass houses
Should not cast stones.
But she was always one to never say no.
She always broke the rules, and loved to skip stones.
And once her arm was cast in gold, before her throne was overthrown.
She wore an evening gown.
She wore a red devil dress.
She was, she is, a mess.
But she is beautiful, I guess.
She, who on rainy days, goes to one act plays.
She, who on summer days, stays in and masturbates.
She, who sees the fall as a placeholder, till March
Or till the End of Days.
She lives in a glass castle.
And she thinks, it all for nothing, and nothing matters.
Maybe she doesn’t even exist.
And she loves to watch the dancers in her ballets twist.
She loves to watch them genuflect.
She loves them all, and gives roses to the roll call.
She falls asleep in the second act.
And she is on stage.
Or she is a place holder
For someone more beautiful.
Someone more talented.
Someone younger. Someone older.
Some day it has been
For Princess Wren of Terrinton
Whats the word I want to use to describe her.
And yes, I know. She knows my name.
And I love her for I was once the same.
Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly.