Would I, or will I ever be—
true as a poet writing, so— is she? 
would she hear or did she ever see, 
her words are sang with breath deeper than the sea. 

Echoing rooms or even around fools
solitary hues always kept her amused. 
despite the toxicity of being meek—
a tear she never sheds, for it akin to being weak. 

I hope she knew—
how her existence was as true
as how the daffodils were yellow
and the sky is blue. 

Could we, or will we ever be
more than just a speck of dust, or a speck of me. 
Should I sit with freesias and wear chambray
or spend a day with Dante on that path astray.