Erudite Confusion: Poetry

By the window,
covered in the ivy
of her sighs
She rests her head
upon cool panes
that witness places
she cannot see

she lives in the
room of white
no color anywhere

Above these notions,
boil down to a single point:

She has been
afraid of Love,
having been
its captive
too many times

Now she harbors
Erudite confusion,
Tantamount frustration,
and etchings of a life
left in dust

At times,
she seems to be
Banging her heels
against the doorway
of a Satisfaction
she may never know.

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