A woman, a victim, a lady unknown,
Stared down at her beautiful child below,
Enslaved by a clear plastic bottle of pills,
Forced into a life that, in spirit, she kills.

This woman, a mother, lost herself in her fight,
When all was completed, her person in sight.
Her child, a daughter, the suffering so great,
You cannot expect but a mind full with hate.

My thoughts, so burnt from the thought of the pain,
The pity I felt for this heart that was slain,
I looked on her face, one patient and clear,
In wonderment knowing: the child has no fear.

The eyes, so dark, so wide and deep,
Hold back her memories of defeat.
Those eyes, so curious, so fair,
Have seen more pain than they could bear.

That skin, so porcelain, flecked and white,
Has been the victim of her fight.
The hands she wears, so small and rough,
The weight they carried long enough.

Her mind, quite young and yet so cold,
Plays host to memories gone untold.
Her face, the thought of it so sweet,
Has been so fouled; from anger, beat.

That tender mouth, the words she knows,
Were once so hated, shunned, opposed,
That clever, detailed, abstract mind,
Exposed to fears beyond our kind.

And yet, those eyes, so clear and strong,
Brim with thought, idea, and song,
A face of pleasure, a voice that laughs,
One heart unshaken by her past.

Eight years go by of precious life,
The humble child immersed in strife,
And yet no suffering can deter,
Elizabeth, her heart so pure.