The last we saw of you, the display was impressive. Floating on your wires, back-lit like an angel, through clouds of cotton, your magnificent voice dripping like honey on the watering lust of men. The blinding stage lights did well to hide the wrinkles of your bed sheets, impressed by the names you lied with.
Veronika, the poison they’ve flooded your streets with has reduced your confident smile to a hollow quiver. You toss your hair free of the dust and lint of sins past, but it is scratched so crudely on the blank walls where your pride once hung, that your star-lit gaze, so destined for grace through the quiet hum of a camera reel, is a dirty little secret, shared only in sad appraisals of misfortune.
Our love for you still exists in our fevered dreams laced with shame. We all hold our breath when you stumble by, the shambled wreck of our once great pride.