I sit with my face to the west.
Others look at me with a smile and rush by.
But their faked interest is no more than a whimpering lie.
They see themselves as best.

They think oh how strange is she with failed limb.
Don’t look too long, don’t cross that line.
Their inner selves know that they could be like me in time.
Their pride a slowly fading hymn.

They are like mannequins polished and bright.
Made by some higher power.
But as short lasting as a winter flower.
Thinking their current condition is the more right.

I am also a pin up doll much like them, with a little pride and even more light.
Though not as powered and fairly lame.
Their pride inside is more of a bane.
For when darkness holds tighter than the rest, they will know we were just mannequins at the end of this long night.