I'm hoping this doesn't seem to awkward-it's been over a month since I've written something I'd even consider putting on her, and it was difficult, so I'm taking it as a sign that I should reeeeally get back into the habit of writing, even if it turns out crappy.


She has a fear of silent crowds that they tell her lacks ration

But they'll never dull the passion

That she—altruistically—feels.

No number sways her eternity

And this fear, she'll swallow it all her life

And never become immune

To the silence that swallows her all too soon,

And as a figure in the light, she'll catch up to them so fast

Faster than she'd want

(should she decide to want)

so she dances in the fire all day, all night,

Wondering, If she could just breathe her own light,

Would they lash out and as Nobody strike?

Or could she

maybe leave those corners empty?

All her life, she's sung herself to sleep, in absence of her Mother

Who was out guarding the night

Because the darkness left those pieces lost,

And all her life, she's lain quiet on the ocean waves,

but didn't want to swallow the bitterness they gave;

Lost without her Mother,

(where is the night?)

she's been wandering around the silent graves—

To Cry, To Sing,

She's never been certain as she heads for the crowd,

Hoping so desperately that they'd shout some of their misery saying,

Cancer lines,

Scripted and rehearsed behind the curtains she was never able to part;

"So who will die tonight?"

She'd have parted right there and just then,

Had it not been for the size of the silence that followed,

Narrowing the exit so only a baby could break through,

And now what wouldn't she give to shrink and crawl, too?

And Nobody loves her as the silence comes,

Pressuring the room with its invulnerable love,

Gets up close and hugs the light that

She can't inhale, for fear of the night