Lagoon

In her lagoon, the waif languishes

 wailing, weeping while she wallows.

 The water cycle repeats

 with the shedding of her tears.

 They saturate her face, her gown,

 sparkling like fairy fire.

 Perpetually pulled into the bog,

 her dress a leaden anchor,

 wringing hands like tiny necks,

 sadness hardens into rage.

 Her blown-glass heart is fragile –

can shatter, cut so quick. 

And yet, all that she craves

is softness to soothe her spite.