She sheds her tears up on the stage,
with words unspoken among the space.
Her lips are crimson red,
her hands tremble, not in fear but in rage
as regret lingers among the air.
A fiend of hell howls its disdain
near her ear roaring each complain,
as words are clogged behind ruby lips.
If her words be weather well they'd be a tempest,
tearing roots and breaking havoc.
If words be gentle well hers would remedy
the hearts of the forsaken.
But now they rest in their lined casket
for a voice that shall bring them forth
in to the realm of enunciation.