And they tell me
she's fleeting from beauty
and pleasure that used to come
to her simply.
like,
crunching leaves under the soles
of her shoes,
breathing in the crisp
morning dew,
or smiling at a moment passing
as quickly as a weary stranger.
she was once a girl with
dimpled cheeks,
naturally glowing with
autumn beneath her feet,
and her heart shown to the world
foolishly, but genuinely.
where is she?
and they tell me
there was no beauty
in her breakdown,
just another wounded heart,
carried by a cliche of tears,
who thought it safe and sound
to give herself to him through the years.
where is she?
