Colin Marschall Poet Ottava rima

~pyrite Promises On a Guilded Lilly~

Those silk sheets look faux behind blurred vision
and golden lamps just somehow seem to fade,
while chandelier like an ice incision,
cut through to the truth that you had betrayed.
All of the dreams my thoughts had envisioned,
lay like victims of terrorist grenade,
and no matter what bandage wraps these tears
the cutting of your words still burns and sears.

For all of the glory found in this room,
from deepest carpet to the softest quilt
are nothing but props, a gilded costume,
that in my sorrow do nothing but wilt,
for what is a bride when there is no groom,
just a dressed up doll without any gilt.
This suite may as well be a box of card,
when all that we meant is totally charred.

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