She

In constant roam
She wanders in bedraggled mist
Small feet stumbling over tattered lace
Moulted boa feathers frame
Her young-old face
The eyes that bled from past cruelties
Ears that shriek of  tomorrow's
Lips that mouth soundless riddles

She travels the world
Through cloud-walls
On dusty ballet slippers
Torn by jagged mountain cliffs
Burned by lightning
She runs and waltzes
Trips and slides, falls
Unaware of north and south
East and west
Leaving a ragged trail

This child of the mist
Belongs to no one
Speaks no language
Sings without tune
Murmurs silently to the breeze
Peers from beneath her feather-frame
While her small feet stutter into
The crumple of slumber

She is the ghost
Of all lost children
She is here
She is there
Her lips whisper
The wordless dreams
And  ceaseless mourn
That bind us in the fraying nets
We crochet around each other.