Your mortal mistake, dear Lydia,
Was finding your solace in words.
You never quite realized the sordid fact
That phrases take flight like birds
If not tethered to earth with somber stones,
Of care, or fragmented dreams,
Of grasping, tender hopes, newborn
Of dusty, lusterless gleams.
You toyed with them like a careless child
Allowed them into your heart,
And they tangled there, they grew like weeds
Keenly wrenching you apart.
So soon they loosed inside of you
That mythical, mighty flood
Your small form sailed, swept up in it,
Heart drowning in turgid blood.
But in the blessed aftermath,
Your art could not prevail,
So delicate, so childlike,
You crept, your fingers pale,
Into a safe and lovely place
Where only light could thrive
And yes, I agree, Dear Lydia,
That you kept your fire alive.
But it glimmered among the timid sticks
So faltering, feeble, and slight
That you spent your breath in tending it
And still could not make it ignite.