She was frail as a petal A dandelion in the wind, Sun scorched and drooping As though a weight Hung from her chin- As though no beam Could ever rise her, And no arms could support That limp and weary frame, A stringless puppet Bowed apart. Others held their places

Due to the pain that was worsening in my hands and arms I have been on as much of a writing break as my self control has been able to succeed in. I have of course penned some lines here and there, and this poem was written in fragments, usually

Did you think To put you in a furnace Would not scorch your skin? To come out gold With easy glee And not the surfacing of sin? Or that boiling water hot Would like a warm bath Scathe you not? Like sinking in so comfortably To fire should come easily?