The wind blows, as usual they say,
She feels a difference, she feels pain,
The sun rises, each and every day,
Unlike the rest, she feels a weight.
The gloomy skies, began to cry,
Bathed in the tears, she was filled with joy,
The night sky, decorated with fairy lights,
Made her dream, of butterflies.
The skies, enjoyed her shouts of joy,
For no reason at all, each day the sky cried,
To bring down joy, to a heart that's mild,
But instead, she cried, cause her tears doesn't dry.
The sun took the turn, and chose to shine,
To dry her tears, to inquire why,
Instead of the sorrow, in her eyes was a light,
Brighter than the rays, of the sun that rise.
The fairy lights, of the night sky,
Accompanied her, each and every night,
Instead of dreaming, of butterflies,
She feared the night, where demons hide.
Once again, the winds blew,
Instead of pain, an arch she drew,
With her lips pointing, to the skies,
It was not fake, but a genuine smile.
Going through, the pages of her life,
To figure out, the confusing signs,
To help her out, to make her shine,
I took down notes, to use as advice.
But my Dear, confused sky,
I saw her confusion, through her smile,
Through all the confusing, tears she cries,
She too, is confused, just as you and I,
Your sincerely, her confused rhyme,
Number ninety-nine.
-Debra R. N. Ludwick-
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