Sonnet #11

Inside that tiny head of hers, it seems,

That young and old, sweet and mean, all are weak.

And when she sleeps, with broken heart she dreams,

Maybe we’re only living when she sleeps.

Yet with this broken-hearted soul of old,

She shuns the living with her empty eyes.

And when she gazes, looks are only cold,

But all alone inside the dark she cries.

Without the making of the bone, she calls,

Open-mouthed, she utters not a sound.

Her path less traveled, she stumbles then she falls,

We look and look, but she cannot be found.

Back to nature, she’s gone into the mist,

She’s gone and without her we don’t exist.