Slow Burn: A Poetry Collection

The Distribution of Natural Things

She cradled her treasures and sighed.

"Nothing", they called her

So she revised her passion

and turned it into college

and she was afraid

She gathered her treasures and clung to them

"Vapid ", they called her

So she stifled the tearing in her chest

and turned it into 'next time'

and she was wounded

She searched for her treasures and wilted

"Collapse", they called her

And she did; rubble pooling

among what remained of cracking pages

and blistering pens

Inspiration wept for her and sighed. He muttered,

'Death looks good on you'

"Memory", they called her