On a lonely firth,
there are howling winds,
and hollowed earth,
to drown all sins.

Lapping of boats,
fisherman stir,
the story has been wrote,
it is beyond her.

Barking of hounds,
and snake made mounds,
yet she stands still,
there is nothing left to kill.

Quickening of pace,
scenes pass in a blur,
too much to face,
it is beyond her.

She lays awake all night,
no sleep befalls her until light,
thinking of how she will escape.
and how plans will take their shape.

Mourners of youth,
the habitual drunken slur,
this will not be her truth,
nothing is beyond her.