I think of Emily
in her room, writing in long hand
her
rhyming poems,
rarely leaving
the house to wander.
her window her view of a world
rushing by,
then hiding what she wrote
beneath her bed.
numbering each
piece, the date, the time.
was there love,
was there joy, heart ache.
was there laughter.
what went through her mind.
would she be different now,
reclusive, shy,
or would she be out there,
like this.
writing, writing as if she
was running out
of time.
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