If she could only be one of those,
those who gild their wording in gold
who speak in rustic,
autumnal hues
and bring forth the world, one thought at a time.
Her voice emerges slowly
carved in inky blacks and ashen whites
fracturing the laden air, dissipating.
She is the unread,
mispronounced and unrefined.
She wishes to reach out and touch
with fingers tinted in poetry,
painted in midnight blues by circumstance,
to talk of the stars, to believe she could reach them.
