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she is a wounded soul

the lights in her house are always dimmed
except for a sole candle
curling on her desk
into the wee hours of the night

slowly it will burn out
as the twilight looms
over the captivity of lost stars
and murky, lonely dreams

she sits and stares into the shaky flame
mesmerized by the depth of its glaring indifference

still from its faint glimmer of warmth
she finds the will to scribe a poem

it’s her rite of passage
into a world of unrealized tomorrows

it is her salvation as well as her escape
from the proviso of shape and being

yet tormented by demons
she is unable to see
she’s really surrounded by angels
refusing to let them to flex their wings

for in her heart she’s not the worth
the time or effort to forgive herself

she missed the chance
to protect what she loved

and now she lives in a memory
in the forlorn verses
she refuses to reveal