Writing

She wrote of war
Boxed in
Within the four walls
Of her book-filled room.
She spoke of death
Like she knew
Something about it
That others were blind to.
Her frail body supported
Her eyes, bold and fierce
As she embraced the grey
In a world of black and white.
With her words alone
Drop by drop
She inked
A life out for herself.
Set out to live with
Only a pen in the pocket
A diary in the hand
And a simper on the face.
The pen
Became an extended limb
An equipment
A weapon
And each drop of blue and black
Fused with the yellow-white
Of paper,
In a symbiotic union
Too dependent for
Separate existence.
She wrote of life
Beyond her four walls
Beyond time
Beyond chains
It was how she placed
The world
Into sight
And how the world placed
Her
Into vision.

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