What am I?
Nothing.
What will anyone remember?
What does anyone remember now?
A lunatic,
Crazed, perhaps?
She tore down the mirror with hand-tipped claws.
A /mono/ possibly, /Mona/
Up the tree, a little tipped in the brain,
Simple.
Or even a red star burning out,
Terrible and sublime (sub-lime) for a while,
But in the end,
Quite disappointing.
I really am nothing that is thought of me,
Only a hollow voice and a thirsty ego.
A little too eager to please,
But soul-dehydrating fearful of
Falling short of all of your expectations.