A woman without something she loves 
Is like a river valley devoid of water,
A thirst that runs deep in your throat,
Or coiling autumn leaves devoid of color.

A woman without something she loves
Is a hollow spring that reeks of silence,
Miserably piled ruins of a vast castle,
A new form of living foreign to science.

A woman without something she loves
Is a day when the sun frowns upon the earth,
A lonely journey in the dead of night,
It's when beauty dries to become a curse.

A women without something she loves
Is a world so wrinkled in the after mass of the past,
A blank canvas so sharp in its whiteness,
A rummaged and thrown away draft.

It's when she loses something she loves,
That she turns into a sculptured mannequin,
Two burnt circles for eyes to never see past plastic,
Her heart the broken strings of a violin.

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