Always the friend, never more, is living out life, crawling on the floor. She looks out her window, she sees through her hair, a long trail of tears, always flows, yet is never there. This lonely being, full of hate and terror, tromps through her life, like a ghost in despair. A secret she holds, alone in her head, a corner she fills, with pictures of lead. A basin of coal, a loud screaming black, fright of a death, lost in a cave. A coral of lonesome, helpless lost souls, but only the reaper of fortunes does know, the secrets she held, alone in her head, a corner she filled, with pictures of death. Tromping through terror, a being of hateful life, tearing through sunshine, to her cores darkened light. Staring out windows, she crawls from the floor, lifts up that gun, and suffers no more.
