Fugue...

A fugue state as the clouds dip below; the sun dulling through the fog, through the haze is the glow. Laid her head against a window - banged at every bump, bruises forming slow. A billowing bang hit like an innuendo. Lighting dance though its stage, the star of the show. A shaking sort of memory, something she's come to know - A mysterious story hits the paper in tow. Jane Doe? What do you call a group of crow? That's what happened that night in the snow… Was it her sanity or the body that go? Time stopped and thought let the mist in her mother's eye grow. The world always hushed in an effort to stow; but like a doll buried alive, the secrets will set lit from its shadow.