on her own, her choir sings
half tormented truths
oak tree stood, magnificent
though rotten are her roots

reflections show true promise
in diffidence and she-
though doomed are her endeavours,
does grow great vanity

she sings before the steeple
and kneels in each pew
as the bell tolls midnight
her eyes lock on to you

before the scarlet ending
we’re all destined to find
she’ll ask to play just one more song
become, in her presence, blind