Lovely
"I was many lovely
things," she sighed,
an ache of pure melancholy stirring in her.
"An autumn leaf, red and drifting in the wind.
A book, to be aged, but never lose its scent.
A lone wolf, beautiful and independent."
There was a pause then as she laid on the ground
and closed her eyes, pushing out streams of glistening sad.
"Now, of all things, I'm human."
Yet the way she said human didn't sound that way.
It held the falling despair of a leaf, the sear of a ripped
page,
the haunting cry of a wolf.
The word hung in the air then,
as if a fog caught it and held it there to torture her.
And it did. It tortured her ever so much.
There she laid all throughout the night,
even as the snow began to hallow the hell she found herself
in,
making it beautiful, though she refused to look to see it.
The trees bent, as if to bow to her, under the snowfall
and grew new limbs of ice that hung dangerously over her.
She need not worry of the cold, for a blanket of white covered
her
under which she lay fast asleep, sadness frozen
to her lovely blue cheeks.