She was buried in walls of pitch and snow,
shunned by the moon which she holds dear.
She stretches out her hand every night
to reach her innermost desires.
She stretches out and cry
for nights and nights, through sun and rain.
She stretches out and cry.
Words once trickled from her fingertips -
letters, of every shape and size,
dance eloquently on stone and sand.
They bathe in ethereal curiosity at dawn
and sanguine discovery at dusk.
Now nothing drips from her fingers, long and slim
but soot as dark as her gleaming eyes.
She smeared the walls with hatred and grief
and sorrow seeped from within its cracks.
Agitation wells from deep within her.
It overflows and spills into her cup of tea.
The bitterness that it brings
is rivaled only by her fear of staying alone.
There is no end to her suffering, and she knows
the walls she made were too steep and too high
and yet the moon expects such a fragile frame
to reach the pinnacle of this ordeal
and stares blatantly at her demise.
And so she rests under the shade
of mounds and mounds of pitch and snow.
She lays supine while cursing the sky,
bereft of words, letters, and ink,
with soot trickling from her eyes.
