“Twenty- eight years of womanly life & all so lonesome.
She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank.
She hides handsome & richly
drest aft the blinds of the window.”*

Maiden come to us.
We call your precious name for you to come to us.
We beg of you to join in our activities.
Will not you deny our passion?

Motionless, awaiting someone to save her.
No one will come,
only their voices seep through the cracks of her window.
“My dear, come & play!”

Her willpower strong - keeping her from leaving her sanctuary of silence,
Though her eyes tell her hidden cravings to be outside.
From the beach they see her in shaded window,
And hear her pain of confliction.

We see you alone,
Though never really knowing who you are.
Fair maiden, we miss you.
Come to us & play.

Never-moving from her resting place within her darkened room.
Dead all these years inside that perfect smile,
Only they see her insanity glow from that window.
She has always been uncommonsensical.

After time they depart, retiring to their homes.
In the eyes of the ignorant-they’ve wasted another day on such a lovely woman.
Though to them, not wasted in any way.
Tomorrow their attempts will fall short as they do every day.

Stubborn woman.
When will she learn they are there to free her of shelterism?
Tenacious woman.
She will never learn.

Wallow in your lonesome, child.
Their efforts will never end.
Conceivably one day, you will join them
Before you are a literal corpse.

*Walt Whitman