She now lies
Where the honeysuckle
Grow and where
No man threads
As he has no
Reason to.

Such a pretty,
Little thing she was,
With skin the colour
Of copper newly minted
And features that
Were no different
From her ancestors
Who lived on the
Land way before the
White man brought
Misery.

Such a pretty,
Little thing.
He would watch her,
He would lust for her,
And even though
He tried to crush
The desire to claim her
To use her, the desire
Crushed him.

He took her.
He claimed her.
He used her
'til all that was left
Was a ragdoll
Bruised
And used.
And like an old
Play thing he disposed
Of her.

He buried her
Among the honeysuckle
So that always
Flowers would be
At her grave,
That was the only
Pleasant thing he
Ever did for her.

Such a pretty,
Little thing that
Will never come home.