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The arch of her back

Had tales to tell

Of broken dreams

And womanhood that fell.

The tears from her eyes

Had tales to tell

Of sacrifices made

And life from inside the shell.

Encompassed by bricks

That were long dead

She rowed through life

And kept her hopes fed.

She laughed at her fate

With clowns that cried

She counted her failures

And her innumerable tries.

She lived in a place

Where birds usually screamed

Where mornings were dark

With sorrows that streamed.

There, lived a pile

Of burnt Christmas letters

They were choked to death

But not for the better.

She lived in the future

Where dreams might bloom

And hoped to wake up to mornings

With love in her room.

She sold hollow souls

And bought black stories

Bruises on her mind

Were out of her worries.

She, was a flower

Of the virgin garden