Mad.
They called her mad,
and in dreams she swept,
and in sleep she kept,
all the sallow sills.

Wanton.
Here opened a window,
to a past long ago,
to release a weary soul,
she refrains, still.

Drink.
You unmerciful thing,
the milk of transgression,
the sourness of confession,
deeply, take your fill.

Numb.
As cold steals through,
in the darkest hour of night,
none to hear your plight,
or breaking of your will.

Penned by my hand on the 25th of Valnuary, in the year 633 AF.