edited. (Remove filter)
The Poetic Death
The grief of a madwoman
Serenades us, "dead, dead, dead!".
She cries, "My sweet smelling buds
Were ripped from my marriage bed".
Her lament keeps all awake,
Even the deceased, whose skulls
Lay in grass and stones that crack
Above their feet. Useless lull!
Is her madness her own fault?
Was it beguiled by hate?
Was it by the hand of man,
Or drawn from the pen of fate?
...
Tuesday 1st August 2017 9:05 pm
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