She stands waiting underneath the plum tree,
The crowd surrounds her pale face in serenity.
She hides behind the makeup and the shell.
Inside her childhood crawls the footsteps of black hell.
The chaos clicks,
The clock ticks.
The insomnia sets in,
Unspoken for the reckless and disturbing years,
She lives as a mime to save herself from the callous tears.
Acting out a part on the center stage,
The spotlight illuminates as she stares at the script from the page.
The words are gone,
Solitude is her song.
The line is thin,