A Sonnet — She sits alone inside a silent storm
Reaching for the starlight as it falls free
Slipping through her fingers, they might transform
Or vanish all, embracing entropy A dream, well out of reach, the writer’s brain
A blank page taunting, teasing, staring down
Bleeding fingertips beg her to abstain
Each drop filling the inkwell in her crown Though seeming far beyond this writer’s grasp
The starlit dreams lay scattered in the sky
She’ll claim them all, until her dying grasp
Gather them together in wings to fly
