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Little Stacy
There's a house, enormous and aimless.
But there's a mural on the wall that's shameless.
It shows a little girl
In her dress that twirls,
Crazy though she seems.
In her eyes, hurt beams.
Her father just stands there,
Getting nowhere.
His back turned on her.
It's all just a blur.
But his eyes are so cold,
Saying things so cruel and untold.
Although her lips are sealed,
However, they still squealed:
"Dear Father,
I'm not a bother,
I'm not crazy,
I'm your little Stacy."
Doesn't she know she won't get a reply?
Why does she even bother to try?
Is she mad?
Or sad?
Or bad?
Who knows?
Copyright ©
Anne Winter
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