The Widow Among Roses

The widow among roses, though a scent so sweet she smells to near smile, how red the vibrance of life and soft the petals caress her lonely cheek, she remembers her love lost (her left eye a tombstone glass) and seizes not to yearn it back --- The Blacklady among crimson; her desert rains evermore night and day, and still the dunes of her heart soak not with love, the arrid wind still shoots the sand through her wasteland unbetrothed, where the sun never rises, nor never beautifully it sets through her tombstone eye She walks the night dressed in white, her wedding gown a sight for ghosts and phantoms do fright; they cannot haunt --- this foot-in-the-grave-soul, glowing white-red howling at the moon To true midnite her feet carries her so, where the river rushes reflecting forever moon glow Where the nymph and sylph and dryad never go, whispering and wondering --- gazing to this lady alone, this poor begotten thing --- this shadow unto death, who filled with eternal tears (seated in some unknown place) her nose in roses, and her mind always in the past (grieving life) and mourning some faceless man *** Inspired from a friend's mother, who at the age of 40 --- all but gave up on life at the death of her husband, which deeply saddened me ***