She was a page stolen from a paperback,
A mystery they claimed.
Unsolved,
Imperfect
She was a heart full of verses,
Torn in pieces
Broken in metaphors
Her flesh ripped with words that wound
Crimson bleeding as ink on the pages blank
Narrating her silence
Scribbling the unspoken truth in sentences,
In paragraphs incomplete,
In letters capital
That screams her soul in ache and despair
She is a page, a sheet of glazing ivory,
Ripped off from the book
Guarding secrets inside its depths
An abyss deep,
Burning with thirst intense
Of promises and desires unfulfilled.
A page, slept in the ashes of memories
Yet folded in fragrance, of the mists of rain
That smell of longings,
None can explain
She is a page stolen from the whispering dark
A tormenting mystery
Hidden,
Unheard
Drifting silently in the haze of time
Carried by the zephyrs
From the wilderness atrocious
To the distant lands
Of everything torn.
--Sybil Samuel
