A Lyric
A lone woman sat in a cabbage patch,
A busy woman once, now slowed by a scratch
Of a rusty nail in her weathered shoe,
As winter weather chilled her through.
A little prayer, a plea unheard,
A rolling stone with dreams deferred.
A mediocre Miss, yet still a woman,
living shaped her life to consume—
A pot of that tea that grew cold at dawn,
A canvas for a crust of bread upon—
A domestic table, a tragedy left its stain—
Of suicide, survived—still silent pain.
A casualty of the coercion’s weight,
A heroine lost to toil and fate.
A grain of sand in time—a fleeting breath.
a life of success—or merely death?
A character carved in the drift of time,
A drinking glass for a simple rhyme.
No epic tale, no song renowned,
Yet in her heart, a lyric—her soul unbound.
WoPoLi 
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