The lonesome child... Dedicated

Sitting at wooden tables,

Pencils grasped in steady fingers,

Curving letters oh so smooth-

Delicate enough to feel like silk across a page dyed in white.

Coming across words that should be left alone,

Feeling like the child covered in darkness.

Feeling unable to be reached,

Unable to cope.

Yet there she is,

At a small wooden table.

Curving the letters in such fine detail,

As if they were everything she wished.

Everything she could wish to become.