A lost specie of youth
Her hands calloused before birth
She became a withering dream
Destined to be played by a propagandist's tongue.

Child round her thigh
Her veins still cry for justice
In the form of New York's
Impure snow.

Blood shot and restless
Torn and corrupt
Young and yet old
Fixed yet disrupt

She'll walk amongst the streets
Chameleon by emotion
She'll wear a carved smile
She'll respond: "I'm fine."

- **N.C