Through and through the lines were blue

The paper, white; the pencil, new

Each stroke the artist made gave way

To new creations everyday

All her life, she drew and drew 

The lines of blue she can’t undo

Her paper cried of many sorrows

Blue did not entail tomorrow

Her past was not as kind as most

The ones she loved were now the ghosts

She was disturbed by many haunts

She was awake for many dawns

She thought up many different lines

Whose ends met up and intertwined

Her hands were quick to fill the page

Feelings in ink, she would engage

Her happiness grew less and less

With her drawings she could confess

Through and through the lines were blue

She drew them as she mourned for you