I wrote my fears in pastel ink
Across the meadow floor.
Trampled hard by ants of lead,
They rot on bones forlorn.
I wrote my pleas in dying air,
The mist of winter’s wrath.
They floated high, like many more;
Gone, but never last.
I wrote my thoughts with ink too dark,
Etched in stones of steel.
Cold to touch and pain to cut,
Sucking young girl’s zeal
I wrote my death on Heaven’s lock,
On that which cast me out,
Sent me down to flames of ice;
A liquid-deprived drowned.
I wrote rejection long ago;
As pleasant as I could.
We both now made the fatal choice;
We both misunderstood.
