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Less Than Dead 

She'd only written emptiness,
and anguish of the heart,
dreams to fill the loneliness,
she painted in her art.

 But all the dreams created,
are nothing in the end,
can't change the life she's hated,
just words from lonely pen.

 Her road of travel daily,
a dry and dusty thing,
no colors shining paley,
where only deafness sings.

No struggle now she faces,
no anguish in her soul,
no false hope that enlaces,
a dream of being whole.

 Her days are filled with blank walls,
she's trapped by angry fate,
listens more to luring calls
to end the lonely wait.

 Her nights are filled with dark doors,
that lead to empty rooms,
the woman that she'd hoped for
a dry and barren tomb.

 And all the friends that tell her
she rests within their care,
for all their loving of her
can't fill her essence bare.

There's nothing left to hold her
to keep her dreams alive,
all vanished when they told her
her lovely mother died.

 And no Knight guards her last door
or gently holds her heart,
no Lady waits there anymore
in any of her art.

 There's no one now to make proud,
no one with whom to share,
walks a ghost among the crowd,
but isn't really there.

So anyone who wants her,
she'll take now to her bed
in hopes a touch will make her
feel something less than dead.©
RAC 7-10-99

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