Plucking strings while the moon rings
low colors by my bedside.
A pillar of strength skin side out
while crumbled interior mess shouts
unequal to her appearance.
Chords drown out the clearance.
Just keep plucking.
Just keep strumming.
A day will come to acclivity
and her naivety will expire
simultaneous to her desire
of finding herself reflected in another face.
Untidiness of life will dissipate
like a friendless ghost exhaling.
I just keep wailing lonesome strings
while the moon rings
muffled colors by my bedside.
Molly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw.