, , , , , , , , , ,

was a lover
trading verse for time
a poet without want
for rhyme
a keeper
born of whispers
few can understand
how it is the night pretends
to know
how it is
reason fails
to justify her love
the pain that comes of dying
with nothing left to say
how it is light returns
just when it seems a loss
to gift her time
she thought was burned

. . .