She left a candle burning bright
in the darkest shadows of her home-
Where the hills were her finest friends,
and her greatest vision-
a sunset lined with white lace
which she poured on paper in black ink.
Her last request was to torch
what remained of the beautiful scene in ink,
for to her it felt so incomplete.
And for what reason does she throw away
all of her wearisome work?
Is it a vanilla scented casket?
Some blue-field violets?
We left her to rest,
but the world will not
until every single character
she scribed has been seen
by our human eyes.
She yearned for death so long,
yet still lives through every word she once wrote.
Now she's gone,
and all the world wants is her return
for a simple explanation.
It's a cold hint of irony,
an unforgettable one
we all must someday face.