She sat upon a bench of twisted iron, clinging to the dew-drenched night
In her own personal asylum; her hair glistening in a street lamp’s light
She could feel the warmth of fires burning from inside the homes nearby
Gingerbread houses harmoniously aligned, not a single one awry

From far away there came a cry, belonging to some restless bird
Reverberating into the blackness, images of majesty incurred
Draped above her were the gnarled branches of an aged willow tree
It's canopy offering tender assurance and a perceived perennity

A tender breeze of summer’s velvet touch drifted through the sodden air
Nature's sweet breath was upon her, as she softly uttered a prayer

But suddenly she felt a haunting emptiness inside

Because the row of charming houses began to look dementedly the same
And the warmth of their fires was just the street light’s faux flame
It’s artificial illumination obscured the stars above
And the regal cry of the bird was that of a lonely mourning dove

And abruptly she came to realize that the refuge of the willow tree
Was nothing more than all that was sheltering her- a shield;
Inescapable and restraining her from ever being free

Suddenly the wind didn't seem quite so refreshing anymore
In fact it chilled her to the bone, and at her tortured soul it tore

And the soft prayer she was uttering, turned into a silent plea