There is a part missing
We will never understand
The space inside and the space
beyond
The way the signs collide
If there are any signs at all.
She was her mother’s favourite
A child as fresh as a meadow’s breath
With aspirations and infatuations
that made her death
One of those the Fates intended
To fall into strangers’ hands
To be marked for her simple manner
The way she loved and the way
She danced.
The vile reaches of a vacuous public
The product of a bankrupt estate
Ripped at this flower on a constant basis
Until not much was left to chance.
She withstood their brutal plundering
In the shadows of the human touch
A martyr for what is decent
In an age of much mistrust,
She trusted
The lies hurled by rabid children
Against her reputation and grace
wounded her once too often
Touched her in a tender place
And caused a commotion of feelings
To rise up from her core.
She eventually succumbed to the bleakness
She could no longer endure
Yet not until she had relayed her story
In a most public domain
Did anyone go out of their way
To try to understand the pain
Of the ages
The plight of the young
The mysteries of a hatred
That is with us so strong.
Ron Kozloff 
Thank you for sharing the story. World is hard and few kind people. Hard to lose a good person. Your thoughts and poetry made me think.