She sits in her tower of drywall,
No will to come down; she fears the fall.
Looking out a window stained of dirt,
She dies from a swelling hurt,
Yearning for a heart to dance with her light,
She awaits the ghostly knight,
Just a mist in this cold, dark land,
As her mind drowns in quicksand.
No one dares climb her wall of thorns,
So in her concrete mausoleum she mourns.
Wasting her hours in daydreams,
Inside her body, her soul screams.
She is her own judge and jury,
Building walls made of fury.
Only she can tear them all down,
Maybshe find the strength to straighten her crown.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem