Hidden under thick canopy,
Is buried a little Penelope,
Growing weaker by the heartbeat,
Feebly fighting against deceit.
'I can't anymore', she whispers,
'Yes, you can't', she promptly concurs,
'Let it go, I'll be still', accepting herself as a nil,
She prepares to fade against her will.
She sees the lacework of light,
Piercing joyfully, warm and bright,
'I am far away,from the blissful ray,
It can help me be less in pain,'.
'But, I can't move', she whispers,
'Yes, you can't', She concurs.
'Let it be, I will just lie,' says she closing her eyes,
Sighing hard, forgetting to try.
Days and months and decades go,
It shines, rains, falls and snow,
Chatoyant vines and blossoms grow,
All over her, on her temple and her brow,
'Let them but I can't,' she whispers,
'So true, so true', she sadly concurs,
And so it goes without a point,
Almost as if Fate anoints.
'I wish I could swim, run and fly,
I know I can't but would've loved to try,
I am six feet under, ripe to die,
I have always and will always comply.
Would have been great though', she whispers,
'So great, so great!', imploding she concurs.
And so, hidden under a thick canopy,
Stays buried a little Penelope.