She is invisible. Yet, stands upright. Ignored, disregarded, a spirit run down.
Intelligent as she thinks yet; still forgettable in her pink slings. Not enough. Too much. “Off”.
This is the anger. This is the cry, she screams in the wind, no longer inside. The words, have vanished, the words are gone. She now is screaming without her song.
She makes herself small, a tight little ball.
Yet none are for her. She’s alone at the wall.
They move and they glide and they skip around.
The girl once a mute until silence is gone.
Her quiet, demure, reserved
kind of love, is ripe for the picking and pure as the sun.
The gentle, the sweet, or maybe the heat has made her a mist like the river’s that meet.
Her story a riddle, her spirit quite large, the people confused by the saltage she plods.
For one maybe two have now turned their heads to look at the girl who once was well “fed”.
The moral, now told is not where you “look”. The moral is where YOU set your own hook.