Stale Mannequin Poem by Strange Fruit

The wet mist coated her hair
forming dew drops on each strand.
Clutching the wall she sat on,
white knuckles on each hand.

In her face, behind the fake tough look,
I could see hurt, I could see pain.
I was close to the crowd, but I watched from afar
witnessing the wet mist turn to rain.

She sat like stone, imprisoned in a pseudo-cage,
there was no escape for her.
Striving for a way out
as the crowd peered at her. Why would they care?

The crowds grew thicker, faces grew redder.
As they screamed she sat dazed,
given up, stopped arguing,
chin shaking and eyes glazed.

No longer could she hold back her tears.
Her wet eyes leaked
a tear for every word they screamed.
I watched unable to help her,
to make my protests known.

I couldn't, or I wouldn't?