I find her walking down the street.

She never looks up, not once, at me.

Her steps are short and fickle

As she dreams of her lost children she once tickled.

Now getting old in her age

She walks the streets; a soul in it's cage.

"What was it like?" I want to ask,

"How was your life, the one in the past?"

Do you laugh? Do you cry?

Do you curl up into a ball and wait for God to let you die?

Do you hug yourself while sleeping at night?

Do you look at youself in the mirror and say, "It will be all right."

I wish you well my muse of mystery,

You have become a piece of my own personal history.

And I hope a new, happier day for you,

So the next time we pass you won't look so blue.