Alone in the forest, not a bird or a bee,
Crowded by weeds and the overhang tree,
She sits on a swing made of old wood and vines,
Swinging backwards and forwards, she never smiles.
Her once white featherd wings have grown old and worn,
Her once pretty dress is now dirty and torn.
Her legs are bloody from the thorns as she swings,
Her feathers are shedding from her darkened wings.
Her eyes are black and so is her soul,
surrounded by sadness, she cannot let go.
She's constantly swinging, she never sleeps,