Use

What am I,
Without these sullen cries?
What use is this body
To those who look?
What good are these words,
If they cannot create a book?
I am a useless vessel
Of a human being,
With secrets rotting
And lies seething.
What am I,
If not a helpless frame
Of a lonely woman?
A ghost?
A spirit of the forgotten?
Am I lost?
Or have I simply been found
And left to live, under the ground?

What am I?

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