Poet Buried With Her Words

 

 

The woman lived alone

Keeping life in a swarm

Of many a young girl’s fears

Along with cascading diaries of her lost seasons.

 

 

While specters picked from the garden of mad reasons,

That horded into possessed years,

Piling each and all; covering them with deep earth warm.

For life became an idiopathic tome.

 

 

The material possessions simply implied a prone

Submission for at once, they possessed the keeper,

While the rooms disintegrated into nothingness

Where the mind had divested of all logic and muse.

 

 

And, the musicians holding empty hands do amuse

For their notes of tone color; strophic; rondo hath a grim reaper

Adagietto infusing the air with the fullness

Of Mahler’s Symphony 5 in a slow... and final atone.