She wanted to be remembered
So she wrote things down
And sent them away
Into the world

Stories, memories, births, deaths
She conjured in words
And flung into the void
And hoped they would resonate.

In empty inkwells
She boiled moonbeams into metaphors
and she watched the stars
for falling similes

Each careful pen stroke
Left a trail of pixie dust
on paper that became wings
for origami dreams

But when she threw them
Like a baby bird from a nest
No one caught them
Not even the wind

As they fell back to the ground,
Fingers fluttering through unforgiving air,
Friction enflamed them
And so too their author fell

Entwined and bound to her work
They both lie dead, unread
Ashes are to ashes
As dust is to dust