The veins run over and under,
Prominent against the paper thin skin.
The chair sits unoccupied,
The room an unrealistic white.
Bright with a blossoming light,
She could tell.
Her vision had not gone,
Though she saw swatches of people.
Days that she could have sworn had been,
But who would listen.
The nurse came to check in,
As impersonal as ever.
She did not know this room,
She did not know the reason.
She did not understand the cruelty,
She did not understand the burn in her veins.
They called her Jane,
Insane Jane.
Sometimes she would forget,
She was Tarzan's Jane in the jungle.
She lived with the man who tried to overcome,
The outside man.
Deep down she figured it was a lie,
And that she was the demented-
Discarded like the paper-
Woman that no one would bother to claim.