She packed up all her things,
broken wings and silent musings,
tucked them away for when
the day would come
that she would finally find peace again.

The curtains whispered lullabyes,
songs of the sun and wind,
the birds screamed at the sadness,
in her eyes,
and she slept among the clowns,
the things she fears the most,
this nightmare world,
the liars and lovers and optimists,

and she cringes when they tell her to believe
and her feet; they try to flee,
but the vines hold their ground,
their prettiest possession,
and she cannot get away,
so she stays,
and remains forever,
unchanged.