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


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