She tried to find a tower
Where she could lock up, far away
And indulge the soulful screaming
And the stupid bloody fray
Her pretentious mind and body
Were set on fighting, to her horror
Hoping death might finally relieve
Her senses of her lover.
But there sits no lonely tower
On a hillside, misted grey,
And these events won’t likely kill her,
Not directly, not today.
Go light another candle
And sigh, and itch, and write.
As the maddening cyclic process
In time will fade to white.