Sally

Sally sits and sings a song.
She sings for all the things gone wrong.
She’s broken, hurt and breaking still.
Fallen down life’s painful hill.
Her bones are cold but her mind is sharp.
Her tunes dig deep, into your heart.
She wants to lift you to the sky.
With happy thoughts, and cherry pies.
And to play with friends, and laugh and paint.
But all she sees are angels and saints.
She dreams of places far away.
Devoid of pain and human decay.
For not yet ten she’s tasted pain.
And in succession, it came again.
With each new illness it spread and devoured.
Her mind and heart that had not yet flowered.
To her teenage years, where she could choose.
What to keep, and what to lose.
So now she sits and sings her song.
Atop a grave that’s wide and long.
Her songs ring out, only in her head.
For poor old sally, is long since dead.

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