There are strange things like, the intent to kill.
Fowl things like the bitterness of unforgiving
Cold things like a hand in the snow, absent of gloves,
A small girl who still hopes and wonders, base thoughts,
Dead ends, little room for the complex, all things complicated
Pushed into the attic, nestled deep inside of a dusty old treasure chest
Then there’s those ally ways, dark and muggy,
Where that young girl hides now
Beyond those ally walls, the grass is greener,
That girl lives there; somehow she has lost her way,
She is lost in her own journey,
This is of course her self discovery