The written word would thrill her still
But the lust for it had gone
To read a novel or book of poetry-
Become too tedious a task.
In her twisted little head,
Was no dearth of fairy tales
But the grown up in her said “No”
Am I literature-dead?
She would ask herself
Without getting a satisfactory reply.
She would dream of new places constantly-
Of travelogues and stranger’s tales,
Of Neruda’s love and postmen,
Of palaces and queens.
When reality would took its ugly form,
And no time was there to read.
She killed herself by letting go
Until she was brain-dead.
It's funny. In a darkly cynical sorta way
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