A child was born, and a tale bagan,

As two parents found reason to stay in public matrimony.

 

This child, a girl with eyes who say more than her mouth,

She felt the presence of a dark thing. 

        That her parents were friends, not lovers.

                 And that she was alone.

 

Years go by, and this child is a girl.

Friends have been made and lost,

The dearest fallen to illness.

       And through no fault of the fallen, this girl grew into an illness of her own.

 

Darkness gripped her heart, her eyes which began to say even less.

But her fingers,

they grew loose.

Tired, but determined.

 

An award was offered, and through her veil shadows,

She began to reach for the light, and write for hope.

 

Weeks, moments, mail go by.

Finially, an envelope containing precise ink changed this girl,

Who now is a woman.

 

This woman thinks not of her own gloom,

happiness,

wonders,

But of the lives everyone leads without her.

 

This woman writes for the release, but also for the message.

This woman, who remembers a dark child,

Looks to the future for herself, and the present of others.

This woman, knows no limits

to what a pen 

may hold.