And as I lie quietly,
Words, for once, lose their meaning to me.
What is this poetry,
This story, this life,
What is this loss that I'm caving under?
Can words- mere words!- define it?
Can it define me?
And tell me how I'm different from the ghost in the mirror,
The shadows under my eyes,
The hollows within?
Can those words tell this story?
Can they create the little girl,
Waiting for her mother to come home,
All by herself on the terrace:
Imagining the passing birds to carry her away with them,
To the sunset, their home,
Away from the demons haunting her,
In mind as in life.
Can those words replicate the depth,
The clarity, the beauty of crimson blood
That bloomed on her pale flesh
As though bleeding through snow.
Can those words rescue her somehow?
Cradle her, hold her, stop her from falling.
But it's too late for stupid words now;
I'm already gone.