She makes her home between the pages
Where she makes her bed in rhyme
She counts the poets and the sages
As close friends over time

She takes the poetic world of wonder
And carefully packs it away
Not knowing at this moment
What she will and will not save

Though she knows that it is priceless
She has learned this over time
Giving off a poetic fragrance
As the very breath of life

a tear
dropping to the floor
is as loud
as a marching band
erupting through the door

They say "all is fair in love and war."
But what becomes of the casualties?