Her lips puff, powdered
blue with punk, purse, flesh out
dull cheeks like biscuits in a fry pan.
Plunges forward her walker
with the gusto of a tired farmer
plowing his field at the end of the sun
and when she reaches the edge
of the churchyard, stops!
clutches her hat, her heart, freezes
stiff as the cancer stick bursting
from her calloused, cracked knuckles,
then stands like a garden gnome
till the caretaker comes to take her home.

Really love that poem since I love goth girls toó :p. It feels sweet, and like a gentleman, and lovely.