stella- queen under the ice
she appears to be apart of the bar stool on which she sits, silently smoking cigarettes, her hair in the 1920's wave, she looks out from under coal lined eyes, that diabetic stare, the smoke rolls in cloud around her fingers, she is tying knots and she holds tot he ghosts of a former life where walking up the hill was easy doing it backwards
the way she moved the way she sat and stared, she is the queen of white and snow, so cold with a voice laced with ice
but no know dared to think no one dared to see under the ice under the layers of make-up that had begun to crack
she drinks her bourbon straight she wants to forget the dansing, she wants to forget the face between her thighs when the city slept under neon light
she takes her anti-biotics hoping for a disease, but she feeds the virus when the winter sets in
and in the ice flows she begins to drown and she can see the whales swimming in the deep blue outlined in pure white glaciers, like inverted mountains
she just wants to be loved this queen of the ice, she just need something to hold onto, some place to call home
she down her drink and sits and thinks whilst she sits and thinks, and then the tear-strip collects as the inner self begins to weep
yet she finds the words played over and over 'i would be better dead'
the words echo back, pulled in, pushed out
she think that to play dead would stop the hurting, would stop the animals from carrying away her carcass
but the traffic lines the forest and hope becomes shattered as she sinks another drink and the rain seems to be so fitting as she can hear it drumming down outside her small anti-biotic world
the way she moved the way she sat and stared, she is the queen of white and snow, so cold with a voice laced with ice
but no know dared to think no one dared to see under the ice under the layers of make-up that had begun to crack
she drinks her bourbon straight she wants to forget the dansing, she wants to forget the face between her thighs when the city slept under neon light
she takes her anti-biotics hoping for a disease, but she feeds the virus when the winter sets in
and in the ice flows she begins to drown and she can see the whales swimming in the deep blue outlined in pure white glaciers, like inverted mountains
she just wants to be loved this queen of the ice, she just need something to hold onto, some place to call home
she down her drink and sits and thinks whilst she sits and thinks, and then the tear-strip collects as the inner self begins to weep
yet she finds the words played over and over 'i would be better dead'
the words echo back, pulled in, pushed out
she think that to play dead would stop the hurting, would stop the animals from carrying away her carcass
but the traffic lines the forest and hope becomes shattered as she sinks another drink and the rain seems to be so fitting as she can hear it drumming down outside her small anti-biotic world