Quietly and alone,
a flower blushes
in the cactus garden.

Viciously and slow,
the flower is pricked
by the venomous spines.

I sat swiftly
on the edge of my bed.

Linking my two soft hands
is a sheet of paper
ready to be
the ballroom of misery.

I held my pen,
and guided it's movement.

I let it dance on the paper
and transcribe my thoughts,
leaving nothing
but ink of grief.