Tired blue eyes 

float a soft gaze 

toward a reflection 

which is not hers

 

Her hands are not hers

but her mother’s 

       — What a travesty 

that they cling to 

impartial brass bars;

slipping around 

in a film of smut

whilst eager mouths yearn

for kisses they do not 

deserve 

but alas 

are already paid for 

 

This was not the world 

she saw in the 

looking glass 

she dreamt up when 

she was young 

but a world created 

for her 

 

Perhaps she lent a hand