Young child

She sits with hair dripping across her face
A book is cradled in her pale fingers.
She watches the rain and sorrow
and thinks back on the years.
She is a young women without a voice.
She hears the voices from rooms all around
and smiles with despair.
Blood red nails scrap snow white skin
Silver dew runs across her face.
This young woman sits alone
and yet she is so near others.
Each breath brings her to
a world of pure imagination.
Each heart beat reminds her
of the pain of her life.
And so she finally lets go
She flies away on mist.
This young woman, a child really,
leaned against the window
and let the pills take shape.

Author's Note

please tell me what you think