Behind Rice Paper Walls

Behind rice paper walls,
she watches others cry
Turning,  to face the old
windmill it looks away,
avoiding conversation
nervously spitting,  stray
words she catches,  as
they blow-by

Watering can rests,  while
she paints it with obscene
colors, making it feel pretty.
It carries what her sorrows
have shed, the one's she
 loves,  the ones to die for.

False hope throws promises,
to grow something useful.
Lonely half-smiles sprout,
from the cracks of cups
she has tethered to her
split end's, splitting more,  
purpose gives her reason
to continue.

She sees others moving
through her compass,
mostly the one's, facing
north.
Ignoring the one's that ask,  
which way to the bright
sun?

Beneath its rays, she gathers
soot from crumbling chimneys
to spread, on her lips the
taste brings back memories
of intendedjoy, and thoughts
of survival.

Pieces of pitch,  still burn
in her pocket saved for
their warmth, when ugliness
turns cold, soaking her rags
with dreams as they melt
onto calloused bare feet.

Blinding truth from a
two-way mirror, concave
to produce added grief
Stands at the end of the
staircase she never climbs
It seems too easy to escape
comfort that way
Perched where blackberries
scratch her legs she sits
behind rice paper walls to
watch others cry