By Andrew Zechariah Wolfe
A beautiful creature stowed away in the quiet. Trapped in a prison of plenty. The object of desire, she pants for less. Suffering the want of all that look on her, there is no hope. Trapped in the blinding glare, she longs for that which is mild, and the humility of the unassuming. To desire that which does not desire me, is the cruelty to which life has committed me.