She sings in a field of grass,
With pools of green and pockets of flowers,
Her eyes are empty, like glass,
She remains here, even in the dark hours,

She waits for her love to return,
She waits with a heavy heart,
With her lips and mouth she does yearn,
She’s sure she’s been pulled apart,

Tears lament from her eyes,
And the winds whistle in her hair,
The grass waves at the skies,
Nothing breaks her dead stare,
For it is not a person she waits for, no romantic choice,
The love she’s lost, that won’t return, happens to be her voice.

Mini Rationale

This is meant to be a Sonnet, but you can easily tell I had no clue what I was doing. I don’t even remember the reason for the title. I don’t think it was for the right poem… oops. I wanted this to be one of those ‘it’s not what you think it is’ but I think the clumsiness of the lines just makes it fall flat.