Sitting in that dark room
without a door to escape the place,
she cries, held by no one
in the realm of the forgotten.
She stares, with blank eyes,
at the traces of our world
outside the barred window
and screams for someone, anyone,
besides the ancient enigma.
The God of the Lost holds her
with its cold and uncaring voice,
whispering in the dead silence
about the perfected simplicity.
She stares at the nothing
with her subtle but not malicious
thoughts of death, not life.
The clues to that riddle,
the depths of the past,
hide each forgotten child
in the lonliness of that room.