In the field where flowers go to die
She lays in wait
Writing beautiful pictures with the last drops of blood from the pedals of the dying orchchids
Painting living songs  from the dying breath of lilies
Singing stone into lovely sculptures from the soil and the roots of fading snap dragons
Changing the the color of the sky using tears from her own heart as it cries and doubts with too many questions
As it fears the death of poetry
And the air around her is filled with her beauty and light and magic and dreams and hopes
Yet she fills empty and dark and sees her own ghost drifting away
Longing and fear settling into the bones beneath her wings
Snaping them from deep within their marrow
Her soul starving for the love she writes of so elegantly to write back and find its way to her
Either through bottles  lost at sea, songs whisperd by falling stars, moonlight typing deep beneath her skin...to find her anyway at all
And fill her empty chest
And replace all the love her heart has lost from loving too freely
And to fill in the empty space between her arms
And she waits
In the field where flowers go to die