She lay in the tall, silken grass;
The red poppies
And yellow daffodils
Stroking her hair;
The butterflies bustling about,
Smoothing out the wind
And shshh’ing the amphibians.

She looked small in her pretty dress
And matching stockings.
Her dog kept watch,
Worrying in small whimpers
That alerted no one.

Upstairs the grownups
Did grown up things,
Laughing too loudly
And drinking too much liquor –
She would not be going in tonight.

Nor would they look for her.

Forgotten girl, lost in dysfunction
The apple of no one’s eye
The object of no one’s desire
The subject of not even one line.

Her limbic brain was scored
By evil music,
Long ago silenced
In the din of everything left to do.

She lay in the tall, silken grass,
Nigh on death,
Though the years dare not speak of it,
Hushed by the whoosh of hands
Passing over the hours, the weeks, the decades,
And not enough love to find her.

03/06/2010

Posted on 03/07/2010
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