Her eyes were unruly and cold:
"My dreams won't be sold!"

I asked her to stand still
Beside the white wall
Then I saw her heart: cold steel
Like an empty soulless doll

Poor the girl, she had nothing at all
But an inconclusive protocol
Of what she could have been
If she were her own queen

Drawing her was beyond me
But I drew her a kingdom instead
With every poem she had shred

"Look over there, can you see?"
"It's the death of C'est la vie!"