Is she drained?

Is she a dying dream, or

A reawakened spirit

Rising from the depths

The polar ice

Of all her lies?

Of all her past lives

Will the light guide her?

Does she wake up each

Morning

Pulling knots through her hair

And crying enough tears to

Drown an ocean?

The makeup caking down her face,

Is it truly concealer, and foundation

Slapped on to hide an unsightly blemish

Or is it the dirt and soil smeared upon

Her pores, from the journeys she has

Taken, from the time she has sweat?

The emotion spent, the hearts she has

bpoken, is this indicticative of a truly

Deceitful nature or is it just more

Evidence, that like us all,

She is merely human,

Inside and out.

And that the choices

She’s made

Are not written in

Stone

But being figured out

Slowly yet surely.