She yearns for tenderness and comfort,
in a foreign land with no earthly dirt,
gathering thoughts as she does daffodils,
she floats around between wind mills.
Swift strokes of God's brush,
keeps her stories to a hushed shush,
she can only keep warm in the lion's den,
unable to scream as loud as she can.
She spends her days dreaming of flight,
in the thunderous silence of night,
alone and forgotten is the storyteller,
till she ponders whether or not to surrender.
Photograph: barrel_of_a_gun__by_indiae
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