The Fallen

A running black mascara trail,
cheeks with the footprints of tears.
Brown eyes, tired of watching this life,
she bites her tongue to hold in the screams.

Her hands feel no warmth,
Fingernails are dirty and cracked.
Everything is past the point of reality,
and any innocence is trapped
in a world of shattered illusions.

Hidden from the oblivious noise,
under the long sleeves and wristbands,
all the pictures engraved on her skin.
They tell the frequent stormy tales
of all the times she tried and failed.

She sleeps with no thoughts of tomorrow.
There is only the angry lullaby that plays
over and over again in her head.

Some pray for her at night
as their thoughts are her only blanket,
keeping her safe until morning.
And she battles with all the whispers,
that tell her to never again wake up.

©® July 2005
Ciermae B.