By the bedside I saw
The yolk sinking deep into the sea
She pulled up the bedsheet
Getting ready to narrate a fantasy
She has a style to say things
Maybe the talk of characters
The feelings they depict
Always makes her falter
Through all these years
The thing I learnt for sure
Is not to conclude to happy endings
As an end was never a cure
The dream house by the sea
And spending the day on swings
A little daughter treated like a doll
She cares and cares over the top
Friday visits to that building
Waiting for a positive response
The room where she stays a month
Haunts my rest at home
She seldom talks to others
Likes repeating herself as well
They call her psychotic
Maybe she hardened her shell
The drips by the corner
The screams I heard
I witnessed the efforts she made
To maintain the cruel fantasy world
The stories she narrated and heard
All depicted the cruel world
Maybe neglected by the ending
She struggles and struggles a lot
Trying to escape the fantasy!
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