Her knuckles bend, they don't pretend, beneath her head plopped in pale dread
Tucked tween these both an ear relieved from being grieved, both eyes near dead
Slouched where she dreams she merely leans, foreign sounds invade the fable
That preoccupies her state of mind as she reads near the table
The palm with which she grips adventure now lies limp upon her lap
It's hostage near released, with spine all creased, yet private flap to flap
Upon her cheeks no glimmer, tightly drawn lips dimmer than dry sands
Her whispering twin tornado tunnels funnel huffing reprimands
What draws her sight, what steals an ear and makes pompous this quiet girl?
Why does her charm befall decay; why does bitter a prude unfurl?
Her grace befalls corruption by a swiftly knocking eruption
Followed by brassy squeaks twisting, breaching thought; this interruption!
Copyright © lana evans