Beautiful disaster, cold white lies

The spirit speaks in contorted sways and thoughful song

She's amazing, croaked smile in uncomfortable skin,

holding close the things which have been deamed unfit snd tossed upon

the withered streets, littered with those unable to afford laughter, but have

trapped peace in a pipe in a tattered pocket locked from view of many.  She's

amazing.  She loves, but who's to say which deeds will earn remembrance on

the cold night death has come to stalk the spirit and moonlit eyes have set until

justice permits them to soar.  Some find peace in this asylum, breaking bread

with those who would prefer to dine on one's blood.   There was no light this 

morning, shadows disappeared and sound has escaped our understanding. 

She's amazing standing in her darkness, needing more than can ever be granted

as her dark hair whispers silently about her face.  She screams.  A single tear

escapes her and she turns to walk away.  Sadness becomes her.  Her face was

made, it seems, for grief, for when she smiles she looks awkward.  Soul stalking

silence covers her holding her almost too tightly in frozen arms and empty eyes. 

She can hardly breath.