A sweet little poem written in haste
On a lone sheet of lined paper,
Sits idly on the dusty floor
Of a dead living room.
Hours before sat a petite poet
Breathing in this very dust
That is currently covering her words.
Her incomplete thoughts that dared
Dance with the tip of her dull pencil
The pain in those syllables is unmistakably
Yet so hard to read.
Such words which were written over the ticking
Of the grandfather clock and the steady pops
Of the golden bands around her heart, to keep
It from breaking,
Are blurred from the tears that stain
The oak floor.
The dust now forms a modest grave
Above where the paper sleeps.
"Here lies a forgotten poem, written in haste.
Too painfully fragmented to complete."