Estella's granddaughter (Edit 1)

[billy]

just few negligible nits AJ.

for me this is your best write so far, it's image rich and unfolds in a wistful, yet sometimes hurting way. i have no idea who estalla or the granddaughter is and fear if i look it up it will spoil the anonymity i got from the fact. the introspection of the person's other selves (if that's what it was ) as seen through well expressed pictures.

thanks for the enjoyable read.

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. this stanza has a really sad feeling about it, it reminds me of the old vaudeville stars who drink because they are no longer able to find work

Whilst I lie here,
a red road map in folded repose, watching the dust is [the] needed?
from the faded thatch, filter through the ceiling cracks; is the mid-line comma needed?
over which I’ve been meaning to daub some Polly-filla
and slap on, some one coat paint. again, is the comma needed? i do like the image and the juxtaposition of the old ceiling and the faded looks of the granddaughter

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 like the sonics of there and glare, i'm not sure if it's internal rhyme or not,but i like it.

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 no shit i know who this was (i'm an ex landscape gardener (seriously) i don't think it woud have done any harm using his more well known name
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