The layer of dust that lies on the table
Seen not by the eyes which are no longer able
To tell real from imagined, or cold fact from fiction.
She sees his ghost daily: her private affliction.
No change can be made, no fix, no repair.
She sits now alone and in silent despair
Drinks to the past and the one here no longer;
As are the roses her soul has been wilted
Long years ago by his death was she jilted.
No strangers can help, they are not allowed in
To the sacred domain come only the kin.
Her Pip, her Estella, the two she controls
Should bend to her will, remain in their roles.
But they must conspire in order to save her
Be it not that they will remain in her favor.