Monday, September 28, 2009

Convalescent



Flightless feathers, no wing on the wind.
Silent streams, a black mass so still.
Her gilded crown, grayed with age,
The woman, she stood there, drenched in despair.

She feels all is lost, and its all her fault,
Though she knows that she has played no part.
Blaming herself, she feels no better,
But if she would blame another

She’d cry, she’d die, she would bleed alive!
No she won’t, though she knows, its her denial!
She’d cry, she’d die, she would bleed alive!
No she won’t, though she knows, its her denial!

Memories…(hidden beneath)

He had come, with that face and his grace,
Hypnotized her, mesmerized with his shady trades.
And when he was done
A pestilence he cast, to remove his trace.
Forever plagued, no escape, what would she have saved?

All is not lost? Not her fault?
She knows now that she can play her part.
Calming herself, she feels much better.
Now her own dark spell on that other

Now he’d cry, he would die, he bleeds alive,
As she tears out his heart, in her hand, it beats out of life
Blood into streams, bones into wings, sinew new silken strands;
Her face colors, lips bleed out to a smile
Quelling his screams and crushing his sighs,

Her face colors, lips bleeding a smile.

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