And he took not a look,
At the wall of wounds before him,
Like his words could yet restore them,
Even those from long before him,
To a time when they were whole.

Speaking sad songs from his spirit,
So she could not help but hear it,
Though she wanted most to fear it,
Soothing her as she came near it,
He enticed her toward a door.

Behind which she'd locked every battle,
Where she cried in hidden shadow,
Where she'd bled from deepest marrow,
Where she hid the hurts she had though,
There they hurt her even more.

Silent screams screetched, "Damn thee, Poet!"
"Pain is mine to hide, not show it!"
"Do not make me now re-know it,"
"Trapped once more and crushed below it,"
"Bleeding tears within this stone!"

But he spoke more still of sorrow,
Of each lost and gone tomorrow,
Of a heart once full, now hollow,
And each shard of glass we swallow,
When the heart is caged, alone.

And she felt her own heart racing,
As the poet slowed his pacing,
Taking her through each retracing,
Memories reaching for embracing,
After years with touch unknown.

And she wept with every vision,
That his words stood unforgiven,
There before her now, un-hidden,
All in faces they'd been given,
All unmasked just like before.

And at once they looked like children,
Scared and trembling there before her
Each one gathered to implore her,
To return to where they'd known her.
Then she realized what he'd shown her,
When he'd led her through that door.

And the Poet gently smiled.
His voice barely now a whisper,
Then he bent and softly kissed her,
Not some nightmare had he wished her,
Only that love would revisit her.