Somewhere inside, a part of her died,
it trembled and moaned, and quietly cried,
it became hollow between,
all the lives that it dreamed,
and in the end there was no way
that it could have survived.

In silence she spoke,
and the poetry came,
but in between every breath,
the words became changed,
in hope, she had tried,
and in hope she had died

in silence she spoke
and the words were denied.

Somewhere inside, the hope became doubt,
it burdened the flame, and it quickly went out,
her heart soon turned cold,
and her muse slowly died
in the end she had known
it was barely alive

In silence she spoke,
but the words were just lies.

And somewhere inside her,
the poetry died.