Jane Archer

She conformed, she knelt, she was a dune on the beach
A needle in a haystack of obscurity,
She never touched anyone, or warmed anybody’s heart
She wasn’t special. She didn’t excel.

Her life was like clockwork, it melded in perfectly, soundlessly and anonymously
Beyond the great ridges of fame, fortune and love
Her life so monotonous that it was normal, not lacking, but not special.
A swirl of change passed her by like a thousand Arabian dancers

A hurricane of change blew through the world, but left the faceless ones
It swept along, elegantly, but surely, curving gently away from her life
And time and all its predecessors danced around but never touched…
And her name would never be remembered, revered, recited or relished.

A single tear in an ocean of sorrow,
A single stitch in the patchwork of life
‘Jane Archer loved and missed’ who was to count one lie at death?
What was the difference between the lie of her death from the lie of her life?


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