A poetry free write . . .
Shadow Maide
Oh, there’s a girl grown gaunt with dreams—
she fed too long on wishful things
made of airy wings of gossamer,
with no meat or bone or blood
to sustain her wistful frame.
Now the daystar blazes
too bright for her face,
and even the moon
calling her name
with silvern rays
burns like
shadows
on fire.