Where are those precious words that I cannot find?
I reach for them on the inexhaustible shelves of my mind,
Yet they have gone, possibly fled
For safety from the death grip of woe
Which I have invited in for a long, extended stay.
If only I'd remember which secret garden I wish to tend,
Maybe then, my friends would not want to go.
Possibly, they wouldn't seek for higher ground, away
From me, leaving me with myself to blame,
No one else to ask. For in my shame,
I see how I pushed them out
By embracing tears and doubt.
In a wasteland waiting to bloom,
The words lie dormant, even hewn,
As from a dragon's lair, too soon,
Not knowing if they will e'er return
Since their home, her heart, has now been burned.