The young lady sits, mascara running
As she gazes into her cup of tea.
Alone in the woods,
Resting upon an old and forgotten arm chair

She thinks of her place in the world,
Of the horrors that it is plagued with.
Dreaming of a better day
Without the hate and despair

She knows it will never come,
And so do the grey winged butterflies
That flutter by. But they don’t care
So long as they can fly.
---

The barren trees, roots topped with dirt,
Watch over their little girl.
They cannot see, but they feel her presence;
The weight of her black buckled shoe upon the soil.

Unable to think, they do not see the world
In the black and white way of her striped leggings,
They know nothing of the wars and violence,
Only of their precious child.