Melissa E. Beckwith
Hollow child stands upon the edge of a cliff wanting to soar.
Will it all stop; will I be no more?
Will I fall and break into a million pieces because I have sinned?
Or will I float away up high and become the wind?
Like a dark cloud it hovers over me everyday.
Rain on my face, or tears, as on the grass I lay.
Not like the other children; I am dark and sad.
“She never fits in,” they say. “She’s always so cloudy and mad.”
Hollow child stands on the edge of a cliff not brave enough to die,
yet not well enough to live.