The child has scars, a weeping daze,

So pure and innocent, but stuck in a haze,

And the solitude wraps around, for amity is strong,

Forever in turmoil, because society is wrong.

Is the bright child actually what you think her to be?

Is she truly a deception, or what your eyes state to be?

Is the bright child dark,  incessantly sacrificing for you?

And if she meets a demise of this, will you do too?

You don't realise she suffers, you don't realize her pain,

For you writhe in your own, and look down with disdain,

She smiles just for you, she gave all she had,

And yet it is a rhapsody, for the bright child is glad.

Is the bright child running out, of the flames she will give?

Will her ignition die out, or will the feigning still live?

And once she forgets, of the life of her own,

The world will forget, of the fire that once shone.

Shifting and moving, such a languorous task,

The bright child works, her face is a mask,

She works for the impecunious, for her family behind,

They watch on with glee, onto the daughter, so blind.

Will the bright child move on, so obliviously meek?

Or will the drains of her head, break into a leak?

Will her demise be exhaustion, out of determination and will?

Or is she already dead? Why is she standing so still?

The bright child is too late, and the woods not alight,

the moon a combustion, like the stars in the night,

She walks through and through, imploring and fast,

Too tired, too sacrificing, the bright child will not last.

She is looking for you, have you realized it yet?

You are hiding from the world, missing and set,

You don't realize what you cause, as you venture alone,

You don't realize how much pain, to which she is prone.

The bright child wonders, she calls for your name,

She beseeches and cries, and the branches will maim,

Tripping and stumbling, she leaves a prominent mark,

And the bright child dies, a demise of such dark.

Indeed, that stumble, that trip, and that fall,

Are you truly aware, for what it was all?

Simply a sacrifice, a blathering call,

The bright child meets dark, for she was your thrall.

Yes, she cared too much, and was it her wrong?

Unanimous then, it was, but it is your song,

Not one of tune, but the silent rhapsody of life,

Of how much things can escalate, if you cause one strife.