Zim Girl Sonnet

If she would lift her brazen heavy head
From where it rests, adorned with curious weight,
She’d see a fulcrum marked with white and red,
To lift the chains connecting her to fate.

The silt still clings to laughter in her throat,
As burnished sheen drips thick from dying trees;
She hums a song her grandmother once wrote,
Yet sings it now upon a wounded breeze.

The world she knew is crumbling at its seams,
Its soil once hers, now slipping from her hand.
A ghost within her father’s broken dreams,
Unhomed, unclaimed, upon forsaken land.

And yet she turns, her hair like banners sway,
She walks ahead. She will not bow. Not break.