...a somewhat disinterested, yet rambling, consciousness
Her slow silhouette is illuminated against the ivory shade drawn behind the Moon's dimmed eyes as she crosses the vacated room. She raises a copper chalice with cynical levitation as she salutes to disenchanted loyalty; her blood-stained lips contort just enough into the upward curtsy of learned behavior, as she exhales with intent.
Her flesh bares the years removed from history with a crescent curvature worn to a perfect imperfection. And her steadfast hips nestle the womb of what was once her babe's cradle. [As the Earth's orbit sways her organs to sleep.]
The tarnished markings of fool's gold rings are cortexual trophies on display: they are the green ribbons tied to her loose fingers purposed to remind the forgetful of yesterday's woes.
And the Moon begins to set...