The Writer

Locked away for years
And rusting day by day
Copper dew drop tears
And paint long chipped away
Metal on her tongue
Petrichor in her throat
Everything so young
Defined by few words that she wrote
Just ink that coats her lips
To force a setting back in time
Some simple written clips
Obstructed by some rhyme
For she creates the past
By simply adding words anew
The writer takes what couldn’t last
And makes it all come true