She sits alone, in the dark recesses of her mind,
Memories resurface like a drowning child.
Things never imagined mar her ****** form,
Her mind is retreated, into a world of its own.
She serves those above her,
she serves those below,
she thrashes and cries out, but she never stirs.
Images fade into darkness and days pass her by,
An empty shell of the life she once had despised.
And then the footsteps on the hard, dingy floor,
Announcing an arrival, as unwanted as a sore.
An automated routine, a drugged consciousness,
Then, once more she is dark and alone,
With nothing but her tears, reflecting the pain,
The only thing she owns.
Slowly but surely, light creeps into the sky,
One more day to survive, one more day to die.
Her head is raised slightly as sunrise colours the sky,
Stirrings in the human dwellings, people passing by.
The tiny ounce of hope she held is shattered at the sight,
A ghoulish figure that could have been on the other side.
The tattered hand of destiny, playing havoc with lives.

Rain, pain, sun, moon,
Grass, love, the sky at noon.

Poets often echo the most popular of themes,
Because these things are common it seems.
It's not bland to bleed what life delivers,
Onto paper, pen moving, ink flowing, a river.

It's especially beautiful when someone can write,
About these things in a captivating new light.
So don't shy away from popular themes,
In life, these things are common, it seems.