There is an edge that is gone;
sharp, not in a way that would wound,
but keen, intense, alive at dawn.
Oh, if ever such an edge be found.

The edge was dulled with death,
sudden, swift, hammered upon an anvil.
Years have gone and her breath
still catches in her chest, a shell.

The doctors adjure suffering transformed
to compassion is a cure for the best.
Still…to have that edge of innocence reformed
in a yearning, longing breast.