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.