She was screaming her quietest kept secrets.
Letting the wind whisk them off to abandoned retreats
with no second thought, she was knotted to the ground.
So she kept on yelling
Just for the company of the echoes in the sound.  

After days of solitude, your own voice becomes a stranger.
Sometimes she believed that there was someone there mimicking her.
Mocking, and revelling in her misery.  But a cynic’s fair voice quietly
told her they were history.  
Now in the air, with no torment they exist blissfully.  

She emptied her chest as she cried back at them:  
"Why can’t I rest,  or at least be condemned? “
It replied with a tone to unravel her to the bone.
You are nothing.
An afterthought, but from which a whole idea will have grown.