Light from the TV
Iluminates the living room
But she is not watching
The colors and motion bloom

Music from an old radio
Softly wails some ghostly tune
But her ears are not listening
Her eyes are fixed on the moon

No wind or rustle of leaves
To break the quiet and still
Of the small house residing
At the top of a wayward hill

The leaden night was falling
The dark sky pressing down
On the reflective soul that lived by herself
On the outskirts of town

Two fists sheathed in black armor
Came rapping on her lonesome door
The next day when the sun rose
Nobody lived there anymore