Autumn came to whisper -
clinging on is futile...

Every word has meaning,
how do we all know, that...

I have survived so much
but mostly I have...

The head chairs meetings
voices creep...

The unsuspecting mystics rose
at four in the morning...

Alone is one of my favourite words,
it has no echoes of loneliness...

Sometimes inspiration
comes in a bolt...

There is tenderness
in rising every morning...

They always told you
you were a rose...

The whispering
started gently...

I needed to write this poem
with a pen...

I was born your angel
not in the sense of the good girl...