She writes in seclusion
Despondent and morose,
Beckoning to your
Hearts and minds.
For hours at a time
She sits inside,
Having drawn her mental blinds.
No voice can reach her
But the one inside
Her head,
So what a surprise
For all to find
Her work was never read.
All the craft and all her labor
Lay wasting in her bin.
If someone had seen
The soul of this poet,
Perhaps lonely
She may not have been.