Far from the fiery clutch of the noon,
There she lays,
Deep in the dell of the shady misery
Lay like a leaf, fallen dead from the tree
Waiting to be trampled again and buried.
Surrounded by souls of the poet dead and gone,
recites emotions,
The stories, legends and wails cloaked by the fog of time
Of the fallen and the unknown self,
Upon the sodden ground like a cursed warrior.
Knew not what Elysium had she known.
Phoenix perhaps,
When hours were old gray and gone
Was it the lone echo of the sun and moon she heard?
Or, it was the seven guiding stars above!
Time ticks, as descending into the darkness,
Burdened alone,
Not hoping for the sun or moon
It is the rain she desires, to burn once again
Refine and numb her in a shell, so safe.
Now she waits for the songs of the spring
Clandestine veil,
Only seen to those who truly seek her,
She's dead waiting to be born again
For something worthy, someone real.
