She

She is eight years old,

lost in adventure faraway, that of the ol'missip, and Huck himself.

Yet it is tainted with purple bruises of indigo,

Yet she she is masked in bloody screams of red, always of stealth,

she is eight years old, knowing the hidden monsters she can't forego.

She is eleven years old, 

lost in the city of New York along side Holden in long for a search.

Yet it is weighted all the same, reality along consequence, her innocence is in absence.

Yet she is covered in the beggars blood, bandaged by the dollar of the old wealth of the Merch',

she is eleven years old torn between patriarchal wealth, and no consolation can be bought in any sense.

She  is fiveteen years old.

she no longer in conquest of certain quarry, only the blossoming of her flower.

Yet she is plagued by the weight of the prim hand that bruises the skin yellow, she searches for a gentleman's hand to mellow.

Yet she no longer can speak by the scapel of the power,

she is fiveteen years old, leaving books to be in someone's hold, yet always hanging on to verse of Sir Thomas Wyatt at thy pillow.

She is now a woman.

She lives in somber twilight where non can be opague.

Yet doeth not see the joy of her fertile fruit.

Yet doeth not see the seedling of hearth she had planted to her youth, all her voyage,

For she is now a woman, leaving a tree a knowledge to be forever mute.