All she wrote, she believed
And all she believed, she wrote
Bleeding her truths out into typed words
Without a second thought
In fact, the idea of not writing
Caused her pain
Left her weary
As if her cumbersome, bony ribs
Had crushed her paper lungs into a grainy pulp
All she wrote she could not undo
And she could not undo what she wrote
Her words were permanent
Never to dissolve into thin air
Like a wisp of steam escaping from
An iron tea kettle
But she wouldn’t want them to
She wanted her words to be immortal
Like the Greek deities she reads about
Or the God she believes in
But the question is: is anyone really listening?