She struggles as she makes her way, through the barren wasteland called earth.
She moves as if strings and chains control her body, she feels as if a puppet, her master, society.
She’s all alone in this world, bearing nothing but childhood dreams, yet she’s only a child.
Hope, to her, is like a deferred dream, golden like the sun that dries up that raisin.
Her limbs carry her unconsciously through the battered earth; she only stops to take pity on pitiful things.
Unaware of the truth, that pity pity’s her.
Doesn’t anybody hear her?
Doesn’t anybody see her?
She cries out, but her cries are faint.
They are drowned out by worldly things that don’t matter, and issues that will be forgotten tomorrow.
She continues to struggle as she makes her way, through the barren wasteland called earth, until she disappears.
And only the wind and the rain can tell her story.
But the real question is; does anybody want to listen?