She imagines amid the dark clouds

that hover on her mountains of sorrow

to be a beauty, not the beholder

 

Her agony rains, and downpours

in cold seas and cutting waves

And drops a drought in her soul

 

There’s a nectar that flows

in a stream nearby

and leaves her eternally thirsty

 

She imagines while lying

on a meadow, looking up at the sky

to be the protagonist, not the creator