She sees ravaged faces everyday.
Here a gray, there a gray,
Everywhere a gray, gray.
Even the fleeting beauty of butterflies
Disintegrates into dust.
She forever tries to justify
why she should live and take up space,
why she should look into someone’s eyes
without them looking away.
Dreams and ideas sit cold and hard,
and wither wasted, never being tasted.
Dead dreams like petals falling,
Sounding like her heartbeats pounding-
Measuring the lies of time.