6The bead of salted liquid,
It dribbled down her face,
Onto those luscious painted lips,
Atop her dress of lace,
She was confused,
Thinking no one cared,
But no one mused,
The troubles that she faced,
No one knew quite what to do,
With a character of her kind,
A lost case she sadly was,
With that queer and weary mind,
She ran away from her abode,
Was nowhere to be found,
But to be dangling from a tree,
Far from the solid ground,
A tainted droplet of blood,
Upon her innocent face,
It came from her most inner self,
And left without a trace,
No one forgot the way she looked,
That way her tortured corpse was raw,
Carved and torn, crushed and worn,
That was what they saw,
And from that day,
The enlightened say,
No one is to be hurt,
Or be put through that dismay,
For to be lost is to be forgotten,
And to be forgotten to be lost.