It was but a subtle cry
Heard from the bedroom window
The voice faint
The sound dreary
Her morbid voice embedded the outré essence of a child

But it was far too loud
Too strong

For a pitch to be so high
Need practice
And skill
She had mastered this art

An art that all weren’t to luck to master
To embodied
To possess

It was only but a sound
A sound that for many was pure
In a fine pitch of E

The choir leader would have been thrilled
What a pitch

But for others
The cry was all to familiar
That voice was heard to often
That pitch was just too high

For she was only but a child,
In the pitch of E