Way down back in the dilapidated shed
Away from the prying eyes of ugly old Ned
She hid her book – amid the dust and dirt,
She guarded her secrets of mistrust and hurt.
The palest of sunrays came every morn
Through an old crooked paling – the ray was drawn
Into the shed – but just stopped short of the nook
It would just stop short of exposing her book.
Each night her old hand disappeared in the dust
As she reached in the dark – to write was a must.
As she wrote her sad words – her touch was to light
Each letter flew off upon wings of a sprite.
Her beloved book held but eight precious pages,
Yet for forty long years she wrote through her stages
And only her tear drops fell onto the page
Releasing her suffering from within its cage.
As she wrote her sadness she never asked why
The first page stayed blank – except for an ‘ I ‘.
She only knew as she reached into the dust
For her own sanity – to write – was a must.