The Ivory Rose
Victorian white lace, ivory fair of face,
Lips as red, the rose bud does grow, and is
Cut's deeply by it's own thorns.
Graceful maiden, beauties sheer elegance,
Of olden years past, weep ye no more.
Within the golden looking glass, she dances,
To a yearling's lullaby forgotten.
A lone figure in a solitary waltz, gliding,
Stepping ever so lightly, no sound is made,
Except for the beating of ones own heart.
A ghostly image, held hostage in time,
Frozen within a glass prison of pain,
Is this the lady of white.
Clouds of powder, set against a blue hued,
Sky above, is heaven so far away, to her touch.
A faded Porcelain doll, is she with eyes
Devoid of life, yet alive.
Hands do smack against the glass, but it is
A jail cell, the intent purpose, to hold
Hostage, what remains within.
This door barred shut, has no key, or release,
Time's measurement, lies in rhythm, a ticking
Clock set, on perpetual motion.
Sorrow's tears melt into nothingness, her
Spirit bound to linger in a hollow image,
Emotions haunting loveliness, a broken
Soul of despair.
Will no guardian angel, wrap her beneath
Their wings of pity's warmth, nay even justices
Avenging, shall not dare to enter within.
Shattered crystal shards, burst forth, and memory
Fades to blackness, a white sheet covers the mirror,
And no light is shone, in this world of illusion.
Victorian white lace, ivory fare of face,
Lips as red, as the rose bud that grows,
And is cut deeply by it's own thorns.
Petals plucked by the forlorn, lead some
Down a path that should not be traveled,
Beware the lonely heart, follow nay the
Sweet voices echoing within the nights
Darkness.
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