she floats down the tinsel-lined street,
cheap eloquence glittering silver as she gives a tired wave.

you know she's gonna die. we're all gonna die, eventually, but
she's gonna die, and we try hard to care.
doesn't hit you the way it should,
no regret, no guilt;
nothing but a dull, inexplicable something
that doesn't belong in this newfound void.

she is beautiful.
we're trying
(is it futile?)
to seem human,
to force our decayed minds into
actually giving a half-meaningful shit.

adoring crowds with engraved faces,
loving sweet and warm and gentle through the lines.
it's all bullshit, and she knows it.

they don't.
they smile, wave at her as she passes,
are enraptured with her exhausted,
plastered eyes...
the eyes that look just like theirs.