She’s a poor, wounded soul

you can’t make her whole

To early she’s grown old

her story would make you cold

Anxiety is what makes her tick

each day a new wall built, brick by brick

Your priviledged if she lets you in

a momentary glance of what she holds within

Cherish anything she shares willingly

but you’ll never know, her, not entirely

Planning her swan song daily

while smiling at some, gaily