The urge to write captured within her fingers
Laced around and around, twisting her limits
To a point in which the words linger
But only just so, she cannot finish!
She thinks of the love she has formed, not hers
But somehow entrancing her own heart along
And wishes to speak, although she mustn't
So here she is, writing this poem.
Jan 20
Jan 20, 2026 at 2:48 PM UTC
The urge to write captured within her fingers
Laced around and around, twisting her limits
To a point in which the words linger
But only just so, she cannot finish!
She thinks of the love she has formed, not hers
But somehow entrancing her own heart along
And wishes to speak, although she mustn't
So here she is, writing this poem.
