As her hair whips across, more fear shoots across.
As her ghost haunts, her spirit taunts her side.
Her soul shall fault, but her heart shall be at loss.
Her hands shall shutter, But her cries shall die.
She feels herself whole , to the content of her soul.
Her skin as soft as snow, within the frills of her bones.
As she recalls herself alone, her eyes are always whole.
As her hair intertwines, always will be like clones.
Her feet against the ground, but her soles are like mold.
Her laughter, as silky as mine, will always be at ease.
She may be weak, unlike those who tell her to behold.
Her own will, as rugged as her, will never grow to disease.
Volta.
As she remembers, her beauty shall never die.
Her glow, glistened like the day, shall never be tied.