No one asks about whom you write,
what turned to darkness from the light,
the aching heart, in turmoil found,
emotions scattered on the ground,
encrusted feelings as jewels set,
dreams lost, hopes not yet met.
Does she not also feel the loss,
the fear, the solitude, all because,
words less spoken, remain unheard,
so oft assumed, not formed in word.
Solitude, imprisoned in self confine,
a table from which, few wish to dine,
devouring ashes of life mis-spent,
an eternity to fully repent,
her heart full broken, mending not,
eclectic hurt, a melting pot.