Sitting alone upon the smooth, flat rock beneath the star-dappled sky, her thoughts wandered long into the night. His words echoed faintly in her mind as she considered the blank page of the journal, sitting open on her lap. She had never been a poet, nor ever considered herself one, nor did she do so now. Yet, somehow, ordinary words failed her tonight. The sharp bit of charcoal tapped restlessly against her knee as she wrote haltingly, stopping often, frowning, crossing out, and rewriting. In the end, she was not completely satisfied that she had constructed anything of particular beauty, but she felt a peace in having gotten the thoughts out of her head and onto the parchment.
What eyes may see, and what is real
Seem not to be the same.
Familiar things I long to feel;
A cruel, heartless game.
The soul seeks out what it would find;
Some respite from it all.
My ears are deaf, my eyes are blind,
My feet stumble and fall.
What hand will guide? What voice will lead?
What wisdom steer me on?
Alone, I fester and I bleed,
And pray to find the dawn.
