With A Sip
With A Sip
...and with a sip, the saddened lass
drained the half full, half empty glass.
As scorched sorrow burned her brain,
she drained the dregs that did remain.
There in the bottom, saw her world,
amid the amber, liquid swirls.
The gypsy reached out an ancient hand,
oil light danced off gold bands.
She gave a laugh, as dry as wind,
expecting gold, before she'd begin.
Needing to know what her future brings,
the lass passed over a cherished ring.
The lass who wore a burdened yoke,
preyed upon by loves cruel joke,
has eyes now dulled by potent brew.
Thick and muddled, thoughts now grew.
The wind howled a shriek of pain,
one fit to be a nighttime bane.
Soon, only the wooden table was lit,
by the lantern with sooted wick.
The lass focused upon a voice,
one that pulled and left no choice.
a voice so near, yet far away.
One that would mold the lass like clay.
It spoke of happiness yet to be.
of a love, not yet clear to see.
It bade her not to shed such tears,
don't let this hurt become your fear.
Think only of what is yet to come,
never recall the unfaithfulness of some.
The lass awoke from her liquid daze,
as from the gypsy, she rode away,
her heart now lighter, not knowing why.
She couldn't recall why she had cried.
The gypsy watched and shook her head,
whispering to herself as she readied for bed.
"Who's to blame for lost thoughts,
when truly it's forgetfulness that's sought?"
Copyright © Paula Swanson