the passanger
gracefully her words are bent
like the arms of a ballerina
not talent, but practice
drives her
like delicate spider legs
weaving a web
yet imperfect as a broken promise
she writes of lust and tears
of power
and double edged bull shit
and breathes slightly easier
with each finished piece
the nights wear on
as does her need
to pliet with pen
dancing the dance of ink
the words come out perfectly
as do all words
when no one is around to receive them
silently she moves
to the music inside of her
interpreting her deepest passions
attempting to heal what is broken.