Marilyn sits by the window’s light,
Nineteen years and her eyes are night,
Curly hair like autumn’s fray,
Silent in her shadows’ sway.
In the editor’s realm, she bends,
Papers, letters—broken ends,
Her gaze, a void where sorrow hides,
From childhood wounds she never confides.
Once, perhaps, her laugh was bright,
Before her world was cloaked in blight,
A past that left her soul adrift,
In darkness, she finds no lift.
Her hands, they tremble on the keys,
Typing dreams she’ll never seize,
The office hums, oblivious, cold,
To Marilyn’s heart, heavy and old.
Her co-workers pass her, day by day,
Not one dares in her depths to stray,
For in her silence, secrets lie,
Of a girl who learned too young to cry.
Dead dark eyes reflect the pain,
Of storms endured, relentless rain,
She moves like a ghost through the editor’s room,
A fragile figure, wrapped in gloom.
Marilyn, with curly hair so wild,
Carries the sorrow of a lost child,
Nineteen years, and a lifetime’s weight,
Haunted by memories she can’t escape.
And as she works, she dreams of none,
Her battles fought, her wars not won,
In the quiet of the office space,
A broken girl, lost in grace.
