The vaguely audible drip-drop of tears onto floor

The sorrow, miserable countenance she wore

The expanding of an internal flame

Who is, I wonder, truly to blame?

 

She slouched, unevenly sitting

Whithin a robe of dross, greatly repenting

Her own soul, which she held so dear

Yet another falls, a silent tear

 

Lain upon the small carrel

A number of pages bound in peril

They swallow all her anguish and pain

Yet not enough to still the rain

 

Her body approaches, stride for stride

Leaving behind her wordly pride

Grasping the all-knowing pen and ink

Who have seen her walk, sit, and think

 

Another drop, this time black as coal

She clears her mind, and leaves her soul

Emptying into the darkening abyss

She takes to freedom, silence, and bliss

 

Lost in her imaginative, wonderous thoughts

She sees, now, all is but lost

Jotting quickly across the vellum

She cleanses her body of all the venom

 

Plum aside, she departs, forlorn

The spirit is leaving and soon will mourn

She is doomed to be silent during

This is the her final suffering