When it calls her in the darkness

She cannot acquiesce

Or acknowledge

Femininity, flesh, desires

Vulnerable, distraught

Every woman is a vision that she is

So much more

Oft she wonders if all poise

Is merely a fa├žade

That inside her hides her strength, her truth

Always too timid

Too overwhelmed

By all her inadequacies to surface

Does confidence wane with each passing use?

Does she lose a piece each time she coaxes it out?

That by the end

When courage caters consequence

She shrivels like wet paper

Though it dries - is utterly wasted

Numb necrosis

Will she ever get it back

What started as a dream?

If her poetry can be her sword

And shield

She's Edgar Allan Poe