
There is a crying, jagged reach
from a broken mind, like a guttered
flame still burns with fitful rage
in a pool of melted candle wax.
But, her monsters all live in the
past - She cannot be saved
for they claimed her long ago.
Her whisper is the soft scrape
of a pile of bones falling together
into dust. Like some forgotten
language the words make no sense
Although out in the streets,
martyred, interred, and resurrected
again, her tones echo with an eerie
simplicity cries mute tears of
self-pity
Like irresistible ocean waves
batter the ground into endless sands
moaning all the while, deny me if you
can.