Shot From the Sky

Her eyes are bright,
rimmed with black;
A shadow is cast,
the brightness gone.

Her lips are pink,
stretched thin;
A kiss has never
moistened them.

 

She has nothing.
She is nothing.
She's done nothing.

 

There was a time
when she wore a white dress.
There was a time
when a holy hand touched her face.

Nothing but a heathen now.

There was a time
when she knew, yes, she knew.
There was a time
when she had, once she had.

Nothing but confusion now.

 

This is the life of the
Devil's child.
No warmth
despite the flame;
No touch
despite the pain.

The black runs down her face--
dark tears.
Is she in this alone?
For herself?

No.
No.

A holy hand will never touch her
again,
but one day she'll wear a white dress.

White next to black.
Dark next to bright.

Yes.
Yes.

She is something after all.

[ SJM ]