A Natural Art

Written by: Erin Beckett

I lose count of the words, were whispers 
the only way but too soft or too vain,
then could I hold back and hurt
in ways speaking volumes you never knew,

I would. And stare into mirrors looking
for the words of a woman I wish I were.

But this too moves me on to her
and all she's gained
for trying, a thousand pieces sometimes well put.

Those I'll claim
for all the worth,
asking not but what is surely selfish.

But I'll bear the shame
for the art of a realist,
for the natural wish that she never be lost, 
that you never forget her name.