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Love was all she wrote
Love was all she wrote,
Until her pen ran out of ink and she couldn't
find a number 2 pencil-
Then it was volumes of tears.
Rain was all she cried,
Until her umbrella came undone
where the end fastens to the metal part-
Then it was years of silence.
Emptiness was all she lived,
Until life huffed and puffed and blew down
her brick house during the summer-
Then it was all rubble anyway.
And she gave up on poetry and emotion
and existence and started over.
Pamela Britton
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