The art of war

there is a fragility to the east concerning the art of war... and here in the centre
it lay motionless and void

her tooth points towards her out breath
and the cries of her neighbours laughs are heard all the way down the street
dogs barking in the distance makes her feel like she is on the out skirts of town
and she is

dust in eyes
wiping
blowing her nose the handkerchief turns black and her shoulders becomes heavy with the realisation that she is nowhere

a pounding heart felt within the casing of her thyroid's house
nestled in the thick of neck
veins thump the life force of its home
ga-doom - doom - doom
ga-doom - doom - doom
beats the walls in a rhythmic trance
while she clips her heels in walking dance

moving
managing to exist between realities of need and desire prove difficult for her and you can see the strain it causes from her number eleven crease between her eyebrows
she wants to manage a conversation with you about your feelings regarding the Abbott government, though she has no means of explaining
all of the words together like a jumble pie
they are smashing the roof of her mouth

she is unable to form a sentence so she chooses to refrain instead

her limbs are long painted objects that move freely
the heart has been constructed with multi coloured pipe cleaners and an old toilet roll
a smile has been scribbled on with a not so new and fading sharpie
she is put together clearly with the offcuts of a scrap-booking circle, with pieces that just didn't quite cut it

her sunburnt skin are roadmaps of new possibilities which she is constantly attempting to smoothen out using her non-scented vegan moisturising cream