It's been a year.
And still, nothing has changed
How can it seem
That she's back
At the very place she started
Here
Alone on this grass
With a look that would seem pretentious
But
She was always far too beautiful for that
Now
Instead
Some tragic marvel she must seem
Under the sun
Book in her lap
Speaking to no one except
The voices in her mind
That write poetry from each sensation that ebbs
To and from
Her unwavering restless mind
She hopes no one will see her
That she'll blend into the crowds of laughing friends
And blades of grass
But she reeks of a mystery everyone had hoped to find out
So naturally
She is under a magnifying glass
That everyone just seems to be
Dying
To look through
It's been a year.
Everything has changed.
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