Where is she?

Where is she,

the self her present

in the wake

of nights that can’t sleep,

noted in sloppy think;

where is she?

Where is she,

who thinks out loud

of a leaf where wonder

ever-wander and curious

and never halt then;

where is she?

Where is she,

who steps into storms

with her mettle

of pure water

tinged of dewdrop innocence,

but raged upon waves;

where is she?

A history forsaken,

a page teared and flew;

may winds blew you

back where it once –

stitched and bound –

where are you?

Feets have crushed

rotted in soil

with crawling worms

you’re not one of;

stand up,

pick up flowers,

be a butterfly,

where are you?

Why you heed

balderdash noises

of swifting poison wind

inhaled but wronged,

you musn’t had;

fool, where are you?

Scour back your voice

in sicken tunnels,

in tainted mines;

creep in lairs

where monsters hid,

where you’re lost

and where to start again.