The sad, pathetic existence known only to her is drawn with a sodden perspective, though she bares not.
Her will is tiring and her thirst, unquenchable.
Sentenced to run the gauntlet for crimes committed by none, she covets but a halt.
She is scorned each day as she wakes, peace eludes her again.
Her longing for clarity draws closer with each swallow but the pain persists, the gauntlet is incessant.
A fool’s query is her mentality, abhorrent is her reality, and contentment is unobtainable.
A poem by Melody Pentland
