She listened as
the silence filled her being .
She knew the flowers were broken
as was the stillness in the woods .
A hawkshire moon ,
the malice of starlight.
Brittle with frost ,
adrift,
tribeless
in the naked night of dreams .
Her lava flowed
in an unrelenting quiet fire
of silence .
She needed a resurrection
as her storm broke ,
volcanic .
With a simple but deadly logic
she hung on the moon .
A raining heart plucked
from a midnite storm of wrath .
As the stream rushed darkly
beneath a meadow of virgin white
The eastern sky started to glow ,
a whisper in the air ,
a softening light .
Troubadors abound
and sing her sad song .
Her soft whisper was first
felt on the far coast of midnite.
A wounded soul ,
highly wrought with pain .
An owl flew low and hid
by the lonely crippled creek .
Over the quivering lips of dawn
a bitter seed erupts .
Like the fallen bliss
of an ancient creed .
Epic silence .
Except for the crunch
as she steps to the grass .