What happened to the girl filled with rhyming words,
Who saw the world through verse and prose--
That loved the edges where reality blurred
Where in her lines the world she froze.
She let them slip through her disused fingers
Her writing all but obsolete
And the worlds she built simply linger
In a moribund reality she can barely see.
Where did the words go, she wonders.
Where did my expressive passion hide?
When will I find my elemental lovers
With which I sculpted paradise in my mind?