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The page stared blankly at her
                        as if she were some traitor
                        This suspicious instigator
                        of the soul's lost prose
                        I know she finally said aloud
                        admitting she was too proud
                        to write it all down
                        the dying rose...
                        She wouldn't illustrate
                        the softness of the rain
                        and how it disappeared that day
                        without the warming of the sun
                        No one to dry her last tear
                        She couldn't immortalize
                        the sadness she felt
                        upon speaking even toned
                        and casual tongued
                        Simply because in one moment
                        it had become too easy
                        to ignore the silence
                        and believe the fear