I lived in my scriptorium,
Where blank white pages smoothly teased me
To map my soul's escape in flowing strokes
          that came as easily as caresses
          to a lover,
And to lose myself in images rare
          and profuse as wildflowers
          along the trail of a prairie pioneer.
I lived there, at the heart
          of my dark passages,
Writing prescriptions,
          and slowly healed.

The room is empty now,
Black habit draped across the manuscript,
And I have left the cold stone walls
          that wept for me,
          containing all my pain.
My sorrow now is only
          that I fear
To brave the haunting shades
And seek
          my writing place again.