in the abandoned garden, she waits,
cold marble lips,
feet melding with the block of stone
that gives her the semblance of life,
heart that has never beat buried deep.

moths visit her at dusk,
brushing powdery kisses
upon the graceful curve of her collarbone;
spiders burrow and breed in the cracks
time has carved into her hardened skin
while summer rain traces mute longing
down her cheeks.

from her lofty perch, the garden is an ocean,
waving golden grass gone to seed,
heavy clustered blooms forming islands
in shades of violent color
(blood, bone, bruise)
like a warning against trespassers,
against anyone who would dare awaken
her still-silent heart.