GEM
She sat near a pool of brownish
waters,
Perplexed by her own reflection.
The wind tender on her hair,
Drying her imbrued face,
From days of sobbing.
Leaving dull lines that stretched,
From her pale eyes, down her haggard
dress.
She never wore a smile,
As brilliant as the sun.
They only burnt, her.
Re-awaking her tears,
From their subtle base,
Beneath her eyes.
She considered them, a tragic
representation of her life.
She decked her face with cowardice,
Never regretted, nor did she skid addle
from it,
The lies she once told herself,
They were now, dreams she woke up to, now
and then.
Expressionless, she sat
On cold dead grass.
They sent chills to her bones.
Her mind hovering through the empty
space,
That is her own schema.
And the world that lies beneath her
bruised nose
Was covered in blood and fear,
The stinch of terror,
Quite familiar to her.
They were like marks on her back.
They stayed with you for a life time.
Misery was something she owned,
They burnt in her dark brown eyes,
You could see their claws lashing
restlessly,
Drawing those who cared for a scare.
The tears that flooded her garment,
Jogged the memory of her own
consciousness,
That she still did feel something.
Something painfully passionate,
Something, “realer” than her fragile
image.
Those tears were reminders,
Reminding her that she can still
think.
Think of events that stole
All the life she knew,
Will ever know.
She stood at the edge of destitute.
As hard as it was,
It brought her solace.
Her hope rises in the east,
Setting west with the sun,
But she seeks no remedy.
An audience at least.
To applaud her misfortunes,
And share her grieve.
An audience atleast…
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