april 09 post-a-poem {7}

the changeling stood by the
hotel door
waiting to be let in
a chameleon,
a fake, a fraud
a liar in another skin.

(there is no room here for you)

water dripped from her briny
and formed a green puddle
on the floor.


what they could not see
would be obvious to you and me,
that she was acutely brilliant
in her
in whatever form she chose to be.

RWP prompt