It Doesn’t.

She bleeds the winds of the mid-desert dreary waves.

She sighs the wreaks and fills her parched heart,

With perished tales;

She looks and seeks for acceptance,

For ways to mend her broken heart;

But dies and lives once again,

To fall in love with love,

And everything it entails.

Thoughts that we are fond of,

And eyes that look beyond us;

Seeking the opinion of her reflection,

Reading the mundane expression;

She struts in long heels that break,

And finds solace in her bruise;

She fits in, despite standing out,

She wears her scars like tattoos.

Hair like the golden evening sun,

Tears that stream all the same.

Being gentle and fragile and pretty, she fights,

And yet no one to lie beside her, in her loneliest of nights.

She has woken up to see the same day for all these years,

And has learnt to see the same, for all to come;

With wonders outflowing the murmurs of her dreams,

And nightmares swelling up every part of her realms.

She bleeds the winds of the mid-desert dreary waves,

And treads the path already taken,

In a world of wars, being Peace makes me different,

Is what she learnt, is what she says.

It doesn’t.

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