Emily

The birds, sitting in
Their trees, sing a tune
As she had once said,
Happy and harrowing.

The sound does not pierce
Like a needle but
Sting like a searing
Heat, warming and harmful,

Wrapped in feathered cloths
So as to tell you
Beauty adheres to
Pain, and pain can cause

A kindness to those
Who have felt its love,
For through learning they
Thrive, yet beauty can be

A treacherous leech,
Stealing your future
And denying your past
Until your are a shell.