The missing lace upon her sleeve,
inspires fear among her thieves.
Her painted toes, and drawn up knees –
the words she wrote, she’d like to be.

She’ll pass the gate, and linger there,
the summer sweet upon the her hair.
And no one knows, what she will be;
for all things go
sobriety.

The morning’s dew upon her dress,
she’ll wake up to her servants mess.
Out in the yard, across the way,
she will remain within her grave.

She’s finally home.