Comments about Elizabeth Sheaffer
The Last Resort
Tears well up, threatening to o'erspill these blackened lashes.
Blackened; That's what society calls fashion.
Little girls playing in mother's make-up.
Wind, whispering through bright, green-leaved trees.
Running around barefoot, the wind in your face.
Falling back, your hair flowing behind you on freshly cut grass.
Looking up at the clouds; sunshine streaming on a beaming face.
Bliss, eternal and sweetly innocent.
Reminiscing years later...