A movement in the darkness rattles chains,
which echo, calling out with screaming cries
of madness, deep insanity, kept bound
in shattered fragments of forgotten dreams.
There’s none left who remember her sweet smile,
or knew her name had ever passed pink lips.
Her curls, like sunflower petals, washed in gold
with tears that fell unheeding down the drain
of her pale face; a picture grey with age.
She is no more than history’s page unturned;
a life unnoted with its fading ink.
But in my dreams she haunts, for she still lives
in stolen moments begging for the light.
She begs to share her tale, the truth, her life,
her death, and all that came before that day.
These rage-intoxicated, murderous hands
cut short her blessed existence; her soul left
to journey lost, directionless, forlorn.