There once lived a woman,
Robed in familial mirth.
And pleasures simplified and prevalent in grand degrees
Blind to and yet gnawed upon by the ignorance of her new birth
Travellers she encountered in great numbers.
At first, seeking their company,
As she traversed the lengths of their lives
Yet as the feelings of discontent grew and widened her periphery
Of visions of possibilities scarcely noted
In her quiet, happy and unassuming demeanor,
Intellect and reasoning seemed not grown,
Yet the experiences of others set fast a rancour
So potent and cancerous in its wake,
Of absent words where images took root,
That she longed and yearned to feel them close.
And find some universal truth
She disrobed and it slipped beneath her shoes,
As she left her warm hearth and loving smiles behind,
And spent her days in pursuit of an ideal
That she could barely discern yet felt unclouding in her mind
There he stood in a quiet light,
The light of an incandescent love, she presumed
Because it glowed so very brilliantly bright
That upon that gaze her life was doomed
At first he remained a precious treasure,
Far from her reach though visible to the eye
But she strove to follow the horizons sinking orb,
To the end of the world where it dipped with a sigh
Like a nun in a heretic cloister,
She set an empty canvas at his knee
Slit her fingers on by one,
Allowing the life blood to flow rich, dark and free
Then she cracked and broke off bits of bone,
And lovingly sacrificed her fine silken hair
Wound it around the assorted fragments and said,
“come, now paint a masterpiece with me.”
Fuelled by the energy of her grace and youth,
He took them and smeared the canvas with vermilion,
And wove garlands of little white lies,
To crown her weary head
As time wore on the easel dries,
The garlands withered and became a wreath,
The picture changed colour and became a machine,
That rang and raged like booted feet with gnashing teeth
The light around still remained,
But the hue turned from white to yellow,
From a jaundice that never leaves the system,
But lingers and surfaces with deaths blow
The divinity she had seen,
Was a thin disguise to a germ that was planted
Of heat and insanity long before born
That purposed the call of her spirit would not be granted
Sadness dripped from her lips,
As anger dropped from her eyes,
In her chest grew a vacuum,
As the gift given slowly dies.
And now she wanders tired and alone,
Across once familiar countries and abodes,
Of warmth and good measure still kindling,
And weeps when good nights are done, behind closed doors
For she will always a stranger now remain,
To the joys of love and eternity,
Never will her old casements be returned,
She dons her new shroud with resigned serenity.
Part 2
Unfettered yet by empty sleeping,
His avenue curved to brutal weeping
How cruel was the sand man elusive,
That forced him to be yet so pensive?
For he knew instantaneously his thoughts would stray,
To loves funeral so stark and gray,
How lively it had been in life and now,
Long dead as the shadow he cast upon her brow.
He grudged and held that she would laugh,
And dance again in her faithful company
But as he lay there, awake and alone in bed,
He knew not that she was already dead.
