She is lonely, without a doubt,

Even though you can’t tell she is reaching out,

For what? She has not the slightest whisper,

She will continue to serve her sentence of silence,

Sitting, hoping, sitting and hoping, hoping and sitting,

That in the midst of her quiet motionless existence,

Someone may stumble upon her emptiness,

But not even faith can assure her they do in time,

For if they falter in her direction there will be a commemoration in her mind,

Otherwise she will drift too far into herself,

And she may just let go,

Of whatever little grasp she has left of this world,

As she slowly fades out of the lives of everyone,

As she gradually loses every piece of whom she is,

Nearly unnoticed by all.