It was a gloomy, cloudy day
Down at the Charleston Beach.
The wind blew the remote area,
Except for one lonely, cold girl.

Her hair glistened with sand debris,
Salt particles, and humidity.
She wore a necklace that was rusty red,
And you could make out a cross.

Her clothing was scrawny and wet,
As if she just came out of the water,
Or just went in the water below her head,
For her head was not wet.

She had watery, tired eyes.
Like she could tell the most depressing,
And horrifying story ever.
Or that she was the story.
And that she said something,
But it was not makeable.