02-07-2014, 07:38 PM
Edit 1 (Billy...I agreed with all your comments in the end...I tend to loose track of my commas as I work through a poem and after a point i stop seeing them - thanks for the fresh eyes 
)
She’s in there,
with her vacant air-fixed smile.
Behind the wardrobe door,
in her boxed ease. Cocooned in her tissue dreams,
complete with her floral coronet.
Whilst I lie here,
a red road map in folded repose, watching dust
from the faded thatch filter through the ceiling cracks;
over which I’ve been meaning to daub some Polly-filla
and slap on some one coat paint.
She stalks me.
As I pass the mirror in the hall.
An utter bitch! In her tight jeans, looking young and fit.
The zeppelined bovine who currently lives there, under a silvered
glare, bristles slightly as the apparition flicks her hair.
I have plenty of purple rope
wrapped in wrinkles round my hands;
I could hang her out to dry. Let the wind and rain
etch in mould and grime; the sun to fade
her lace trimmed train. She would grow old.
Instead of extreme sports,
halo tinged with an unrealistic health glow;
she would show me suitable pursuits, a graceful pose
or two, in stately homes with a nice view. Lancelot Brown
gave us beautiful grounds – either would do.
But she seems forever fixed
in her plastic coated, protective ways.
Safely ensconced between the sheets that veil her eyes;
one by one I turn the days; each a lie to be exposed,
to the truth that I don’t know who she is.
Original
She’s in there,
with her vacant air-fixed smile.
Behind the wardrobe door,
in her boxed ease. Cocooned in her tissue dreams,
complete with her floral coronet.
Whilst I lie here,
a red road map in folded repose, watching the dust
from the faded thatch, filter through the ceiling cracks;
over which I’ve been meaning to daub some Polly-filla
and slap on, some one coat paint.
She stalks me.
As I pass the mirror in the hall.
An utter bitch! In her tight jeans, looking young and fit.
The zeppelined bovine who currently lives there, under a silvered
glare, bristles slightly as the apparition flicks her hair.
I have plenty of purple rope
wrapped in wrinkles round my hands;
I could hang her out to dry. Let the wind and rain
etch in mould and grime; the sun to fade
her lace trimmed train. She would grow old.
Instead of extreme sports,
halo tinged with an unrealistic health glow;
she would show me suitable pursuits, a graceful pose
or two, in stately homes with a nice view. Lancelot Brown
gave us beautiful grounds – either would do.
But she seems forever fixed
in her plastic coated, protective ways.
Safely ensconced between the sheets that veil her eyes;
one by one I turn the days; each a lie to be exposed,
to the truth that I don’t know who she is.
Slight edit done from original post - took out hazy from S3 L5 first word
)She’s in there,
with her vacant air-fixed smile.
Behind the wardrobe door,
in her boxed ease. Cocooned in her tissue dreams,
complete with her floral coronet.
Whilst I lie here,
a red road map in folded repose, watching dust
from the faded thatch filter through the ceiling cracks;
over which I’ve been meaning to daub some Polly-filla
and slap on some one coat paint.
She stalks me.
As I pass the mirror in the hall.
An utter bitch! In her tight jeans, looking young and fit.
The zeppelined bovine who currently lives there, under a silvered
glare, bristles slightly as the apparition flicks her hair.
I have plenty of purple rope
wrapped in wrinkles round my hands;
I could hang her out to dry. Let the wind and rain
etch in mould and grime; the sun to fade
her lace trimmed train. She would grow old.
Instead of extreme sports,
halo tinged with an unrealistic health glow;
she would show me suitable pursuits, a graceful pose
or two, in stately homes with a nice view. Lancelot Brown
gave us beautiful grounds – either would do.
But she seems forever fixed
in her plastic coated, protective ways.
Safely ensconced between the sheets that veil her eyes;
one by one I turn the days; each a lie to be exposed,
to the truth that I don’t know who she is.
Original
She’s in there,
with her vacant air-fixed smile.
Behind the wardrobe door,
in her boxed ease. Cocooned in her tissue dreams,
complete with her floral coronet.
Whilst I lie here,
a red road map in folded repose, watching the dust
from the faded thatch, filter through the ceiling cracks;
over which I’ve been meaning to daub some Polly-filla
and slap on, some one coat paint.
She stalks me.
As I pass the mirror in the hall.
An utter bitch! In her tight jeans, looking young and fit.
The zeppelined bovine who currently lives there, under a silvered
glare, bristles slightly as the apparition flicks her hair.
I have plenty of purple rope
wrapped in wrinkles round my hands;
I could hang her out to dry. Let the wind and rain
etch in mould and grime; the sun to fade
her lace trimmed train. She would grow old.
Instead of extreme sports,
halo tinged with an unrealistic health glow;
she would show me suitable pursuits, a graceful pose
or two, in stately homes with a nice view. Lancelot Brown
gave us beautiful grounds – either would do.
But she seems forever fixed
in her plastic coated, protective ways.
Safely ensconced between the sheets that veil her eyes;
one by one I turn the days; each a lie to be exposed,
to the truth that I don’t know who she is.
Slight edit done from original post - took out hazy from S3 L5 first word