Oh how the lies
Have weaved themselves.
Like a splendid dress
Of horse hair.
You got the
Itchy feeling
She was up to something.
Excuse after excuse
She made
Her parents never knew,
For what she was up to
Seemed no more deadly
Than the woodworms
In the strong oak
That shaded her while
She sat beside his grave.
Afterall.
Nothing changed,
But the tears she
No longer cried.
Nobody ever
Understood what
Was going on
In her head.
Because all she ever did
Was nothing.
Although.
At night if you listened
carefully at her door,
Some would say
They could hear the
Scribbling, scratching,
That was so often associated
With her favourite pen.
