She sits staring out her window till dawn. Can’t believe that another day waking her. Her heart is so alone. How will she greet the sun? She keeps waiting for Cinderella’s slipper to fit.

THE HURT IN HER EYES SHE THINKS NO ONE SEES. THE PAIN IN HER HEART WILL SHE EVER BE FREE? THE FLUTTER IN HER MIND & WINDING OF HER SOUL SHE WONDERS IF SHE CAN EVER UNDERSTAND…

The artificial laughs & carved smiles; ivy wrapped tight around a thorny trellis. Her thoughts flooded with wounds of her innocence snatched. Flowers in bloom and the grass starts fresh buds, but the torment she lives in never seems to die.

THE HURT IN HER EYES SHE THINKS NO ONE SEES. THE PAIN IN HER HEART WILL SHE EVER BE FREE? THE FLUTTER IN HER MIND & WINDING OF HER SOUL SHE WONDERS IF SHE CAN EVER UNDERSTAND…

Fog fills her sight. Imaginary bars from which she slightly peeps hold her as a prisoner of herself. Memories. His angry ways. His forceful touch still leaves her motionless. Her mind fears. Her heart cries and yells in a voice of despair.

THE HURT IN HER EYES SHE THINKS NO ONE SEES. THE PAIN IN HER HEART WILL SHE EVER BE FREE? THE FLUTTER IN HER MIND & WINDING OF HER SOUL SHE WONDERS IF SHE CAN EVER UNDERSTAND…

With a sense of hope, can she release her heart? Possible for her fearful mind to rest and allow love to adorn her lips with an essence of joy? Will the bars which blind her dissolve. Desperate cries soothed with a voice of peace? Can her soul now understand the pleasure of living?

THE HURT IN HER EYES SHE THINKS NO ONE SEES. THE PAIN IN HER HEART WILL SHE EVER BE FREE? THE FLUTTER IN HER MIND & WINDING OF HER SOUL SHE WONDERS IF SHE CAN EVER UNDERSTAND…

Her soul cries out to the One of love. Grace. Filled with songs of gratefulness and not of obligation. She knows the human hurt her. The One will not. The One will not hurt her. For this reason, she sings.

Her soul cries out to the One of love. To the Grace she sings.  

There’s an eye that looks with love & a heart that feels her pain. The flutter of her heart and winding of her soul can finally sit softly as the mornin’ sun on dew dipped blades of St. Augustine.