The Game

She hides herself
Camouflages her fractured heart in the bedraggled wilderness of an abyssal anguish
At the unswept kerbside she anxiously awaits the phantasm of a wagon to wealth
A pretty woman
Languishing in her world of concealed pain
This veil won’t disguise her shame for too much longer
A prisoner trapped in the confines of what she is yet to perceive as a beautiful mind
but her misconception of this has led to this destitute life to which she has now resigned
On the beauty of life she no longer ponders
she has fallen victim to the great lie
Believing all of her best years are too far beyond her and that her clipped wings won’t allow her to fly
Stuck in missionary under analytic eyes
His grubby calloused hands claim their prize
Her body moves all seductively
Yet frozen is her mind
Her thoughts and dreams have become idle
As a child she envisioned flying planes and luxurious gowns for pilots purposes all bridal
He touches her but never touches her whole
Like a mosquito sitting on the skin Unhurriedly sucking at her soul
The world looks on with a lack of sympathy for on the surface this is the life she chose
Unbeknown that as a child at the alter of innocence
This is when her precious life had been stole