He used to know her.
He remembers her.
He knows her.
He does not know her now.
He cannot know her now.
He will not know her now.
Her hair is red, like the
blood dripping down
her neck.
He remembers when
her hair would glow
in the sun.
She is not a blonde.
Not anymore.
Her eyes are black, empty,
the soft caramel brown
that he used to know is gone.
Her cheeks are covered
with blue marks,
and her skin is broken
in many places.
Blood drips down her shoulder.
She limps as her wing hangs
broken behind her,
dragging in the mud.
She is not who he remembers.
But she is who he will never forget.
i was writing a scene for one of my chapters, and it turned into this poem... although worded very differently.