She wanders not lonely as a cloud

but angry as a dust devil,

with judgement cloaked in blaming shroud

slowburn of anger, febrile.

What fate befell that sweet, sharp mind

now plagued with thoughts of violence

to spawn sensibilities so unsound

and increasingly mere silence?

What confounding ills did rear

this sullen, raging presence?

A once bright light, no longer here,

her love, an evanescence.