Any Tartan

The dreamer dreams against the pane
And with long history she’s clad,
But any tartan she might wear
Is just another lifeless plaid

From the father long forgotten.
Shrunken down and valued less;
Myrmidons of ancient valor
Shield her, as her eyes confess.

She’s called names in schoolyard’s passing,
Dark and light and in between;
Rays of hope in visions fleeting
Scanning the horizon keen.

Wanting to belong, and people,
All the things she seems to lack:
Any tartan she might wear, though,
Never
Claims her
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