Ladylike

Identical queens, identical thrones,
canted heads on feeble necks, smiling dolls.
Their plasticky teeth and mechanized bones
were too dense to perceive the future fall.
An act of contrition never atones
for a sin so sick as to disregard
the muffled lament from behind locked doors,
yet at the wake to leave sympathy cards.
Sartorial clothes and salacious grins,
exploiting self-harms like a lewd whore,
somehow failing to see where they begin.
All alone in their surreal landscapes,
Peccadillo pricks their minds like sewing pins.
And with that, their dreams, they start to lose shape.