Her shell weighted and dry, mite like irritation upon touch
Wearing her ethusiasm like stained, tattered lace
Squinted sofistication beneath an inferior history
Grotesquely adorned with rusted shackles that hold no key
Eyes drawn with the burden of memory
Flickering affect
A gentle hand passing words, supposition of light
Reminded of painted memories of when she once closed her eyes
For a moment her onerous cloak of thoughts drift
A lightness of breath
In the distance she sees it
Happiness
~Alisa Hutton