She was a flower that once bloomed to the morning sunshine,
Now she struggles, for she withers with time.
She was the daub of paint on every canvas made,
Now she goes distant, as her colours fade.
She was a dreamer with a zillion stories to tell,
Now she gazes, with nothing to sell.
She was their ray of hope,
Now she battles, only to cope.
She was the pensive to her memories,
Now she stares at the blank pages of her diaries.
...
She was a believer,
Now just a follower.
She was a flower that once bloomed to the morning sunshine,
Now she struggles, for she withers with time.
For all those who look into the mirror and see 'her'.
