A Wasted Wick

The words have conformed to her throat,

Held hostage by it's form,

Because speaking her word only goes unheard.

Unheard, for no one listens regardless.

She serves a desolute and barren purpose,

To wash and tend and agree.

Clipped birds can only rise above a certain degree.

High enough to look and listen,

And never form an opinion.

 

In her core, there once lived a flame that burned,

Torching and illuminating everything in it's path.

A reason for being and dreaming,

A passion for learning and laughing.

  And loving.

And what became of loving?

In the shelter where she stored the flame,

It is empty now.

In it's place is a wet and wasted wick.

The core has been lost

in the shadows of where she saw it last,

And the hollowness is all that remains.

 

To inspire is a blasphemy,

To reach is a treachery,

To live is empty,

To leave is only a fantasy.

 

She gathers her life's regrets,

The distances which she has never placed her feet,

And the potential liberty that layed innate,

True love that she had never made.

She places them alongside the morning linens and daily meals,

She washes away the memory of her former self,

And identifies herself only as who she has now become:

"I am just Mrs. Smith."