the saga of trudy

coy
her hair hangs straight from the well water
she would tell you her favorite color
but she doesn't know it anymore

she dangles in between
the familiar and unseen
and she holds the secrets
of a hundred guilty men.

uneasy
whispering to her past midnight
oh, what a savior just might
pull her from this lovelessness.

they love her for her
sweet words, and her demure
face that looks into them
and they see a village harlot.

vagabond
how she longs for home
in a place and time, for home
in a man that won't erase her.

she dangles in between
the familiar and unseen
and she holds the secrets
of a hundred guilty men.