On August twenty-ninth, two-thousand and seven,
Marks the night my mother will never forget.
The night that had headlights for a moon
And air bag smoke for a cloudy sky.
The night she lost a part
Of her daughter.
For paranoia sets in every night,
I would rather the moon, than those head lights.

Rest In Peace,
To the trusting girl in me
Who got lost in the night’s cloudy sky
On August twenty-ninth, two-thousand and seven.