The Girl With Empty Eyes (And Her Great Adventure), a poem by Drem

Excerpt: “Ready, then, finally her ashes will go into the air, into the breath of gray lungs and she’ll run through God’s golden hair from a gust of her Guardian Angel’s wings…”

I wrote this when I was young and way before the living will had to be written. I’m sitting here thinking about what to call it and can’t think of anything.

I am this girl. I am the girl in the mirror.

There is a lot of hope here.


The Girl With Empty Eyes (And Her Great Adventure), a poem by Drem

Written July 27, 2010.

Edited and Altered March 21, 2016


“This complexity that is in front of me

on a mirror in a shopping center

is enough to keep me busy

thinking all day

and keep my pen up

all night.

I see so little

in her own eyes.

And there, that is my inspiration-

her nothing.

For such a short time she’s been here

and has so little to show for it

but moments, her moments that scarred her

from fear.

Fear of men in silver trucks

with wild eyes

and who wears no shoes

in summertime,

even out in public,

and who says threatening words.

Talks about placing glass on the ground

surrounding his family’s swimming pool.

There are no postcards,

or snapshots

or maps on her face.

There is a shadow of darkness

across her forehead,

an indent she got as a child

that marks her identity.

Makes her a little different.

But besides that, there is nothing.

And that nothing is something

considering how long it takes her

to stop herself

from ripping her ribs out

and peeling her skin off.

It’s a daily task trying

to keep herself from

hurting more of her.

Eyes closed.

Soul out.

Blowing in the wind, she is,

while anchored to a couch.

She sees herself through the reflection

in other people’s eyes.

Judgmental gazes

while her head is on a pillow

and her mind is drifting from her opiates,

those pills.

And strangers and family alike

wonder what she will do with her life.

Those thoughts echo through.

And people who say

if she lost some weight

she’d be pretty-

the hurtful words enter the room.

And all those who say with caution

that if she doesn’t get her life together,

married with children and health in order,

that her nothing will just continue

to be a great nothing.

It’s a lot to filter,

and brings her faith to fall and to a halt.

It leaves her with thoughts

that her consumption

is wasteful.

That the air she breathes

is pointless.

And no interesting


will be written.

For there is nothing to write.

Beige with a green slip cover

is her bed.

Worn not from abuse, just old age.

And that man in no shoes,

he talks the loudest of them all

to her in her head

through that fabric

and memory foam cushion.

He’s seen more than her.

But she can’t write a book

about where he’s been,

who he cheated on her mother with

on several weekend high noons.

And in any case

I’m too consumed

with understanding doors.

Her doors.

And the epiphanies she dreams of.

Golden gates.

And the lovely eulogy

I’m writing for her.

It will be a proper empty page,

rightly situated

on an empty stage

in a Catholic Church.

I won’t say, just think,

what’s the proper goodbye

to a person or an object

who has such an adventure ahead of them?

She’ll have a transparent coffin

ready to be burned away

so in her last moments

she’ll see more of the world

that she knows so little about.

Ready, then, finally

her ashes will go into the air

into the breath of gray lungs

and she’ll run through

God’s golden hair

from a gust of her Guardian Angel’s wings.

Her spirit will fly

across oceans of all colors:

navy, brown, turquoise and plastic.

And there’s still so much more


underneath all the pre-requisites she hasn’t met yet.

But she will

which makes my heavy heartache

over her absence

simply selfish.

For with great wings

 I dream

she’ll fly.”

(C) Drem 2016



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