Down the street, a girl walked.
She had nothing to do so she talked.
To no one in particular but herself.
About how everything was for the good of self.

People see, people wave.
Yet no one knows, she's digging her grave.
Many passed, many heard.
All listened like she was the shepherd.

She's attractive, I'd give her that.
Though she'd still argue the world is flat.
Her heart was nice to see, nice to hold.
Once broken considered sold.

Like a displayed mannequin,
She crossed the street like a queen.
Nothing is around her.
Everything is in her.

One minute of absence.
One half minute of presence.
Two minutes of talking
Four minutes of walking

All lead to one ending
The girl lay on the floor bleeding.
Everyone rushed to help.
No one was dialing for help.

In her mind,
It was all mine.
Out her mind,
They never were mine.

The only last thought of her,
If I must say about the thought that caught her.
That vivid image of a grey shadow.
Was the last thing she sees before she willow.