her loneliness surpassed the vast empty field
and on her journey, the truth began to reveal
no lavender, no roses, nothing lovely of the sort
she would be lonely, forevermore
she wished to cry and drown the lands
and so the gods compromised with her demands
they had left her papers and pens
in which she could draw and write, again and again
if only the flower in which she dreamed of, in which she drew
could blossom as beautifully as real ones do
and amongst her stories and the movement of the pen
she wished she could write a story and paint a scene
of which she had a happy end
i've never been the best artist or writer but i still enjoy it. to me it's always felt like an attempt to escape loneliness
