It is her cry I hear. Her voice stutters
And embarassed, she extends a pleading
Hand. Crys for some relief and yet another
Vice shuts around her, sadly receeding,
Retreating beyond all cries for reason.
Compelled and driven by invisible
Nature to heal cuts crossed about her knees,
Embracing all evasive, visible
And haunting nightmares. Frail skin and silent
Voices speak these volumes so loudly and
Memory speaks of something triumphant
Buried by chains of other's ignorance.
These chains will break and soon, soul now revealed,
A furrow her mind expands, thoughts unconcealed.
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