She sat down 
At her writer's desk
With her box of
Letters
And her pallet of 
words 
And as she painted
She tried to glue
sentences 
Together 
To make some sense
Of the world 
Which reflected 
Before her
In the paper thin mirror
Which was both
Her life and
Her life's 
Work
The jumbled paragraphs 
tumbled 
On to the canvass
Acrobats of her mind
Spilling ideas of 
What was
And what might have been
And what could be
If only things
Weren't so sticky
And vocabulary 
Didn't twist
And confuse itself
Wrapped around ego
And Id
And heroes and villains
And throws of
The great unwashed 
And her quill smoked
With flames
Of passion
And destruction
As she scratched out 
The nonsense 
Of her soul
Until there was 
Nothing 
But ash and embers
And a beautiful
Sense of something
Important
That somehow 
Everyone 
Had managed
Not to
See