Troubled Beauty

Another poem from a long time ago

Haunted eyes sparkle in the darkest of shades. Fathoming

those caverns never yields.

She shields herself with laughter and stories

of the memories that do not hurt.

She does not speak of harm or loss 

or the blackness that may force her to live her happiness

from a pill. She flicks her long, brown hair over

a bony shoulder and distracts herself

with the mundane. 

She is so young but her wisdom weaves

safety for those in need of it, the wanderers, like her family.

She is a warrior, with her strong heart and

ever giving hands. She is tall and lithe, and when she 

walks, people look. They know her as rich, perfect, beautiful.

Blood is thick inside her and prevents her

from swallowing bitterness.

She needs colour to survive and creates it with friends, 

words and surface peace.

She is a troubled beauty, though no one realises. 

I do, and I know

she will run until the ends of time and she 

will never look back.