Lady on the Swing
In a hotel,
On the lush green mountain
Sits a lady,
Whose origin is an urban legend,
Her weeps are heard,
The residents complain,
The staff are accustomed
Who lays their eyes on her,
Never are the same
There are holes where her eyes are to be
Weeps of blood,
Wears a cascading black dress,
Like a widow
Back when she had a pulse, a heartbeat,
She was a survivor,
Her love?
Didn’t make it.
Her voice, angelic and calm
She comforts the others like her,
But if one doesn’t respect her?
They are stripped of their ego
And their pride.
