• The heartstrings play a soft melody.
    It may be out of tune,
    It may lay itself all over the place.
    However, it is a tune, nonetheless.

    See how she closes her eyes.
    See how she sings her long-winded notes.
    It is all under a breath.
    There is just so much that she can sing.

    The right tune.
    The wrong tune.
    It doesn’t matter.
    Her heart beats with such loneliness either way.

    Tune of dark,
    Struggling to find the tune of light,
    Her heart just can’t seem to find what it needs.
    People here and people there,
    Nothing seems to matter anymore.

    Her silhouette is what remains of her.
    Like a house laid away to be put to rest,
    She has been fully gutted.
    Her tired feet continue to search.

    She trembles as she falls onto her knees.
    Tears stream along her face.
    They mix with the dirt, blood and sweat.
    She can barely stay upright.

    What a sad tune she sings.
    She sings this tun with all her might.
    Why doesn’t anyone hear?
    No one listens.

    She’s growing older by the second.
    Her heart may very well freeze over,
    Becoming increasingly cold.
    “I deserve it,” she tells herself.
    “I deserve the misery I get.”

    See how she goes.
    She her footsteps roam the barren wasteland.
    She’s not even wearing any shoes.
    Her feet appear bruised and bloody and full of dirt.

    Her search for the lighter tune continues.
    It is all she can do.
    The child in her arms laughs and plays.
    Little does he know,
    Little innocent thing,
    She is suffering in silence.
    Little does he know,
    It is him.
    That is the reason she lives.

    “Misery always welcomes me,” she reminds herself.
    “I’ve done bad things and now I’m paying the price.”
    Her sins are stamped to her forehead,
    Stamped to her aching heart.
    “It’s what I’ve done.”

    Her words,
    Sharp as a knife,
    Pierce the veil of black sky.
    Her words,
    Screech beyond her ears.
    No one can hear her.
    No one is willing to listen to her woes.

    “Everyone has grief. Mine is nothing special,” she tells herself.
    It’s what occurs to her constantly.
    “I’m not that important.”
    Like a leaf drifting in the wind,
    She has detached herself.
    Importance isn’t a thing anymore with her.
    She’s been kicked around.
    She’s been beaten.
    Her entire body is just one big bruise.

    As she lays dying,
    Breathing her final breaths,
    The blood seeps through her clothes.
    It’s starting to finally return to the dirt in which it came,
    Feeding the nearby trees.
    That’s what she’s wasted to.

    Finally, her eyes open and she breaths one final breath.
    She lays there,
    Staring up at the sky,
    Her final light fading out.
    Her dignity and humanity have returned to the earth.
    It is all buried away,
    Just like her aching heart,
    It is all buried far away.