her brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness 
the occasional ballet lilt 
at night, lost to the moors of father time 
she floats 
across the vistas of her forbidden history 
and every morning when she wakes,
she dies 
worlds of lonesome improbability turn and wither inside
as the men in white 
tell her she has an incurable mind
but who are they to her
other than figments of God’s great imagination 
she’ll still be dancing when the sun goes down
she’ll be singing when the world falls through the clouds
she’ll still be here tomorrow 
if she was ever here
at all