Twelve

She makes music and she sings
and hopes and dreams
and I love her oh so madly
yet she twists an eerie sickness
in her long brown hair
and she looks at me with drooping eyes
and tired skin and pale cheeks
she wants me to say the magic words
to make everything go away
to give her light anew
in sleeping twilight
her animal dreams
her childish, simple statements of
idealism
such a black looming cloud
she wraps around her like
grandmother's babushka
how i wish i could take you home
as i push you out the door.