No temperature
No dreams
No dusk
No dawn
No poem
No me

She watched the guild
from afar, its yeast of unrest.
In her nomade pace

she wandered to choose
the wind and a river.
Self exiled

from edenic insights,
her quest was love immunity.
In a make believe sortilege,

she tattered her red laces
and marionnetted a will.
Rain fell: she was but a pretender.

My spelling
has to be wrong.

I write love
and you don't see it.