As though I'd ever find her,
Or the whispers that greet her,
But she paused,
If poetry were pain -
And died.

I was a stowaway once,
She is cursed with a fleeting heart,
Soon things become separated,
Meaning and word,
What is this word?
Je ne savais jamais...
I shall teach you to fear it,
And loathe the shallow me.

She alone broke to stillness,
Crossing out every verb and verse,
And so exhumed a feeling of death.
I would have thought long under the shadow,
Of what she became -
The poetry beside me.