Sitting alone once more,
Feeling so pushed away,
She tries to hold herself
From the chill she feels-
Icy, like the hands of death,
She imagines.
Some approach,
But are, disappointing, in
Her sight.
She's lost in her own web,
Knit so intricately
With delicate hands,
To protect her...
Are they all this ignorant of her existence?
Or is she in self-exile?