She laughs and talks,
She talks and laughs,
And when there’s hardly a reason to laugh aloud,
She takes it upon herself to be the initiator in the crowd,
Often missing the fact,
That it is she who is being laughed about.
She never stays put,
After all, frivolity is “cute”.
She plays the game,
After all, “not compromising” would be lame!
And thus swaying right and left she makes her way,
To what she thinks is a glorious day.
She awaits trumpets greeting her,
To celebrate her “triumph” with alacrity,
It does not matter if the world has been scarred,
That is no excuse for her happiness to be marred.
“Been there, done that” she silently yells,
But how it was done, is not the tale she tells.
And as she looks down from her ivory tower,
She wonders why no accolades upon her, are showered.
The silence she interprets in her own presumptuous ways,
As the malice of sore losers en route to decay.
Never for once does it cross her mind,
That the silence might with deeper grief be entwined,
That the silence speaks of a dreaded find.
With her head in the cloud she can all but see,
That the world below has elsewhere to be,
It is not her that the world spins around,
Things to fret and feud are there, abound.
Winners and losers are all she sees,
In her narrow divisive mind of conjectural reverie.
But that winners can be failures and losers a success,
Is something that only, time upon her would press.
And thus,while the world is too sore to sing,
The unsung heroine sings to the glory of her being .