If Words Could Portray

Poem About A Poem

Sitting in a darkroom
by the window,
watching the skies
burst and cry,
whether from unbearable joy
or unshareble sorrow,
making them stop is the last thing
she'll try.
She looks down and sighs.
I wonder,
is she going to cry?
She looks up again and smiles.
I haven't seen one like that
in a while.
No one knows how or why
the skies cry in her heart,
and neither do I.
For I'm just a collection of
words in her head,
a pile of words that
she'll turn beautiful,
till she gears up to jot me down
on a shred.
I'll smile and wish her well,
if I'm left as an unfinished verse
and disappear.