The Poet

The ink bled onto the paper
at the callousness of her pen
4 am musings still linger
with dawn quickly setting in

The shadows fade into the nothingness
deep inside her womb
Words long forgotten still echo
like a ghost within the tomb

These pages like her soul
made cryptic and unclear
A myriad of endless thoughts
The very heartbeat of her years

And if her eyes read like a diary
could you see within her soul?
No, she's elusive like her words
with many secrets never told

And every word of every lifeline
is written on her heart
She takes all the shattered pieces
and turns them into art

IF you ask her what she's written
her response is somewhat vague
but with her ink pen bound to paper
She writes her soul upon the page