She had an appeal, attraction
One in which could never be named
Or known.
Her spirit attracted souls -
The injured, the sore, the sorrows
Of those smothered by darkness.
She reassured those pained of
The life that could be lived.
She painted pictures with her eyes
Of the landscapes that raised her
In the outback hills, riding horses
Freely, wild.
She was a blank page -
She could be anyone or anything
Your imagination could dream.
Her body contorted
Every personality was saved within.
The souls she allowed inhabit
Were of mystic mediums, she was
A passer of all.
She was the poignant reminder of suffering
Of past, present and future.
And it was that vulnerability
That vacant distance in her eyes
Those windows into a soul,
Suppressed, restrained
******* of self.
It was that vulnerability
That sent a small sparrow
Barely out of the nest
To drown in rivers of despair so young.
© Sia Jane