There sits a girl of porcelain fare,
With long, flowing, golden hair;
She sits by the still pond, quite alone,
An angel that rests upon a melancholy throne.
She inhibits tears every day,
Searching the sky, seeming to pray;
Dominated by Patriarch hand,
Her existence is timeless as the sand.
My heart screams out, but my lips do not utter,
I convulse with every sigh, every shudder;
I observe behind the vibrant plumes,
While her soul emanates impending doom.
She's analyzing the futility of her life,
The possibility of a suicidal knife;
I am powerless to rescue this princess in need,
I am no knight, I have no gallant steed.
She is in misery, I do relate,
We are both bound to irreversible fate;
There sits a girl of porcelain fare,
With long, flowing, golden hair.
