The paper turns to crimson
As she writes with all her scars
Her quill becomes the poet's key
That unlocks her prison bars

With her prison doors wide open
She's free from all her pain
A prisoner of her past mistakes
That's left a lasting stain

Broken trust gave birth to grief
As she writes of her abuse
But everytime she tried to leave
He'd have another excuse

She tried her best to cover her bruises
After the beatings would start
But nothing could cover the pain she felt
From the break inside her heart

She found the strength to walk away
And leave the past behind
She writes each night to find her freedom
But it's truly hard to find

In the
Sweltering summertime dawn
I was
Pleasantly stunned
By the
Spontaneous presence
Of you
In my life


In the
Soothing autumn afternoon
I was
Immensely intrigued
By the
Familiar disposition
You have
In my life


In the
Slumbery winter twilight
I was
Overwhelmingly enchanted
By the
Comforting spirit
Of you
In my life


In the
Arousing spring moonlight
I was
Incredulously cognizant
By the
Undeniable home
You have
In my heart



*© NDHK

it is said
are the measures
gradations of fib..
more white more truth
more black is worse..
with such entangling
where is found
purest lies and truth..?
then further
does truth birth lies
and lies the truth..?

are such words
to each
a mirror...?