Poor Wretch

She's a pris'ner locked in castle walls,
A wooden ship in a bottle of glass.
She's a child lost in mazelike halls,
an empty church on the Good Friday Mass.

She's the lost sheep the shepherd won't find,
or the toy left home when the children play.
She follows dreams but is left behind;
The moon that trys shining while it is day.

Lover of all those who have no heart
digs for gold with no compass or map.
Of the hearts pleasures she has no
part,
no lovers head to lay on her lap.

Captive, lonely, and fragile is she,
looking for someone to lighten her loads.
Alas, sadness, she chose death quickly:
The skel'tal robed man: her life's rock erodes