In the icy chill of a winter’s morning

I can feel her presence in the wind’s embrace

Her entrance bears no warning

An austere glare is etched on her face

A splintered soul wrought with steel

No one knows what lies within

Abounding attempts to conceal

Painful memories that have been

Opinionated and downright rude

Always right and others wrong

A calculated approach she does elude

Does she adopt this to belong?

They say “no man is an island”

Although this lady would much protest

I wonder in her convent of confinement

Her soul finds peace and rest?

For if that key unlocks that door

The atrocities therein would be released

And the tower of control would then decease,

And a helpless girl would be there as before

© Copyright Joan M. Clifford 2014