Nika

   
   
   
Nika  
   
your words move  
   like broken glass  
         across my lips  
   
gone far too long  
already  
   
beautiful girl  
   
  beautiful soul  
   
     beautiful darkness    
   
broken toy doll in a
grotesque    
world  
   
there are pictures of  
you reciting your  
poetry,  aged 8 or 9,  
arms gyrating madly,  
audience crucified    
to thier seats  
   
child prodigy is what  
the intellectus called  
you  
   
but no one stays a  
child forever  
 
and the prodigy wilts  
like sunflowers under  
the weight of melancholy  
at summers death  
rattle come the autumn  
 
what once was so  
rare and precious    
becomes trite and  
mundane    
   
and the literary world    
forgot it's golden lion    
daughter  
   
that night in 2002 when  
you "accidentally" fell  
out that window (for a  
second time)  
   
I wonder as you looked  
down and saw that ocean  
of concrete and bricks  
rushing up to swallow  
your young body  
   
did you even ask yourself,    
"WAIT! I DON'T WANT TO  
 DIE!"  
   
but your poems were  
just the birth of a long  
death  
   
you knew that truth    
about your  
life  
   
and the truth that this  
world is just a bit more  
beautifully sad because    
of your art