Tea Party

they find their place at the table,
glass eyes stare out expectantly,
waiting for the hostess to begin.

Her voice is sin and virtue woven together
in a tapestry of insanity's temptation,
her curtsies, the essence of refinement.

Pulling ribbons from the secret place
in her corset, held together with silk and lace
she ties gross grain and satin

across eyes that see nothing
of what displeased her
in a fit of pique.

Playing "Duck, Duck, Goose" with her party guests,
the self appointed executioner of exile,
she rejects all but one

tattered favorite, held together with love
and glue that chips away
with each passing year.