Half A Woman Poem by Rebecca Stansfield

I'm sorry for a crying creaking cradle.
That the candle dies out so deadly, definitley, dying so defenslessly.
How I'm sorry in where a bruised book, battered and bored.
By owners so turning utterly heartless and candle-wax-worn.

The splendid helpless hobbit of the night-
Who hears babies hallow, hungrily high.
I'm sorry where oil paints run out of sight,
Turning rapidly into the sky.

Which in a place of all things, half hearted dare,
Half hearted heart half candle, half wick.
Of a scalf so sparsley knitted fire-
That seldom can blow-
Blow into the night.

More so which I'm sorry, much moving, menacing mighty down
Is of a half wik burning into the night.