She stands in the hall way,

Blind to the world but always listening,

Black curled hair caressing her face.

Standing to attention,

A weapon,

Awaiting orders,

Taking arms.

Angry bullets discharged from her mouth,

And fired down the line.

As she mimics their voices,

Spitting out their words,

Beckoning feeble fingers to take her hand

She pulls them close and whispers in their ears,

before shooting the gun,

that fires the tone.