The Dock

Wind whipping 

through shoulder length

brown hair.

Sitting alone

with her thoughts,

on the edge of a dock

overlooking a dark, gray sea.

The minions of life's

cruel, ever searching hands,

found her at last,

She can't run any longer,

too weary is she to try,

Left alone,

all she has left,

are the tears on her pale cheeks,

that refuse to dry.

Author's Note

2011