And she stole her inspiration
from beneath the wishing tree,
rolled it down among the stones,
sliced its skin and cracked its bones,
gave herself to condemnation
and left the words alone but free.

The sky rose up among the fallen
where it had no right to lie,
and the birds then ceased their calling
for they there again could fly,
their wings no longer broken, tied.

But then she wrapped it all around her,
wound her fingers in its cloak,
pulled it close until it spoke
of all the pretty things
she knew she couldn't say
as the stars began to smolder
and her sorrow slipped away
into the sea.

Even though it left her low,
so vulnerable and weak,
she loved the things it whispered
into her lips as if to kiss her,
but she'll never let it show,
not a single soul can know
how she used to weep.

And then she stole her inspiration
from beneath the wishing tree,
let it seep between her teeth
and bring her to her knees,
so humbly hallowed,
so reduced in worth beneath the dirt
into a grave she ne'er forgave
for falling shallow.

Thievery was then again her end.