her dark poems

she wrote in blocks
of hard pressed black ink
her somber poems.
some typed harshly
onto paper, others written
by hand, the pages
nearly torn by pressure.
how little did you
know of her, what had
occurred, what light had
been doused to make
her write what she did.
how quickly you retreated
and swallowed your
criticism when learning
what a child's death does
to the human soul.
your narrow mind, and
youth giving you little
room to be wise and quiet,
unlike today.