Original Poetry

In Her Weary Chest

A moonlit girl, a white-clad ghost, walks here at her own pace;

She hurries not - she'd rather be alone than force her place.

A staggering something in her chest relights the embers cold;

They stir and smolder 'til their heat is more than she can hold.

She curses, in her weary chest, this thing she calls her heart;

She shivers, for she's been condemned to this life from the start.

Her shoes are filthy from her trek across the muddy ground;

She's traveled its entirety and scarcely made a sound.

No sobs rise up, no tears run down - no evidence of her pain

Can be made known, lest people start to get too close again.

The stars try to console her as they dance around the moon;

It's full tonight, unlike her heart, cryptic as an ancient rune.

She's undisturbed by rustling and whispers from the woods;

If she could make them out and offer her reply, she would.

But she must give her words to people, overcome a tongue of lead,

If she ever wants to master all this chaos in her head.

Her name rings out so softly that she's not sure of who calls;

She tells herself she's crazy, that it wasn't there at all.

But it's there again and she lifts her head, clear eyes growing wide;

He speaks so kindly that he soothes the wildfire inside.

She cautiously removes her hood, allows her words to come;

As moments pass, her heart's alive and her blood begins to hum.

She knows that she's a monster -- of her company he'll tire;

But she doesn't look back as she takes his hand and leaps into the fire.