Pensieve

A refuge from the sharp thorns
Waiting for her at every corner
Of the world
From the burning coals
That lay before her feet

He was peace,
A gently rolling ocean
He was a Deep well
That absorbed her furies
And bitterness alike

He Would have layed
Her demons to rest

And that, too,
Would not be enough for her

She needed to watch
Her demons dancing

So She could create them anew
Only that way could
She exorcise them

He
Would and should
Be enough for anyone
Except for artists
Who need their agitation

(No rest for the wicked)