Chronic Couture.

 I used to bend. 

Melted into velvet 

backdrops, like 

couture.

A formless figure;

easily posed, 

with fickle bone, 

that floated across 

the stage.

The marionette me

even made the frigid 

melt. 

But now, I fray.

My timeless youth

no longer ticks, 

as sickness seared me

with its brand. 

Torture, in tremors,

& aches so great

I quaked, 

like the open mouth 

of a bellowing 

grave.