Improv/Imitation 1, Week 2

"That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive."

Her hair should be gold,
but sitting in a chair upon the window
of an intently towering wall
she falls into disrepair.
Wisteria climb up the path to where
a shack rests, dilapidated and dull.
Whose mark upon that wall can the duchess
speak like glass and painted crystal;
a voice no more like a water wheel
but rather a spark of grinding glass.
Once more I put the groiund glass in
his saline and put my hands together
in a mock representation of the God
he doesn't believe in.
My only stuffed animal rests on the edge
of my once silk bed, an unfortunate
side effect of the medication.
I see nothing there; a black dot
where I knew that my face should have sat.
But only that blackened princess gathers
her flowers and pretends to jive
in a kingdom that doesn't really exist.