Hovering over me like a dark cloud.
The kind that comes from being brushed
Clean, of love devoid and words unfound.
If a blade of grass can bear the pressure
Who am I but a heathen of bones and flesh.
A ripe strawberry has its marks and I should be bereft
And princely, kindly, ice queen that I am.
The heavy wound is now rotting and stabbed.
It's left its mark, it's dark and drab.
Ice queen that I am-- the stabbing didn't hurt,
The wound is healing, and I am whole--
The woman of my dreams.
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