Nib on paper, frozen hand and blank mind.
Tilted head, mouth agape and desperate eyes.
Searching, searching, in the blank pages she had bind,
Tired of waiting still, for promising lies.
she sits, she stands, walks round about,
Pen in hand, nib on paper, paper between pages.
Her legs give away; knees bleed, yet none a shout.
Rosy ,lips mutter phrases–those candid phrases.
And then she writes and the ink quietly spreads.
She stops, she sits, and starts again.
For days together she writes; to stop again she dreads,
Little food or water she takes, since her vigour she did gain.
But alas she stopped; her lips turned blue,
And was returned to dust, before she grew.