She was an artist
Built from tragic beauty.

She was a house of pain
Walking and talking as if not.

She was a house of cards
In more ways than one.

She was a mother of sorrow
In her bay of desperation.

She was never more than a failure
A stumbling sack of lousy thoughts.

She was just a concerned former-citizen
And a prisoner of her childhood memories.

But, because she spent her life dreaming,
She was an esteemed champion.