Weeping Willow
The breeze of the morn she sought.
Her eyes were wild, as she thought.
Her hands tremble like a leaf on a tree.
She marked her steps silently.
Sylphlike is her frame.
She was a lady not a dame.
Within a distance, she looks back.
The mansion, she found, was in blackness.
So many skeletons remain.
Her cape begins to skein.
Angst, she releases a sigh.
The tears she would cry.
Lithe, she bends,
as agile as the breeze as the wind.
Interchangeability she disallows,
as she raised her head up to the clouds.
Perhaps, she thinks, life has been lived.
Ideology misconstrued she perceived.
This lady was once of rank.
But, now her spirit sank.
No authority does she has.
Moreover, no one cares.
The breeze of morning she seeks
to find inner peace.
Her story, she feels, must not be shared
too much pain to reveal.
She will not let the world in.
A dead life ends.
The beginning of a generation is her discourse.
She will stiffen her backbone and reform.
Solidify from the melodrama, she walks within determination.
Her ideas begin to form via life manifestations.
She hears the past as if it was now.
She frowns and shouts aloud.
“Why has my life defeated me?”
The vision recedes and she feels that victory is guaranteed.
“Who will cut me down?”
She ponders, as she turns around.
She had secluded herself to well.
She was not the one to change that.
"When my existence," she reflects, "is so well kempt
idiosyncrasies are mine to consider."
Remoteness defines the trees.
She has entered the morning breeze.
Pulling her cape close,
she breathed in to establish hope.
Via internal dialogue she spoke.
“I must linger in the unknown.”
________________________|
PENNED ON AUGUST 17, 2014!
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