The Last Song Of Spring

Oh eternal spring, renew me in thy glory,

blow away the putrid ample from the hearts of mine,

and calmly lift the burdens , that have weighed me down so.

I have crossed over, from the dimension of my foes,

to the world of my dreams, where honey, drips from every

blossom, and men make merry.

I take non with me. For non have earned my love.

Orphaned me, in the land of sin,

and bestowed on me these thorns, that drip my blood to thee.

Marked me, with a brand of hate, and claimed me to be the din.

While all I looked for, was a knit by the fireplace,

warming, my cold hands and feet, while the broth cooked away,

and the bread, baked by the wood.

All I wanted, was a sleep, not of men or lust,

but in the solace of my dreams, of fairies and elves,

and witches and song.

All I wanted, was a dance, at my wedding, with the man

that claimed a deal of me.

But your wish, is my command. Wasn't I brought up to believe?

The lord of lords shall save the flower, from the bees,

and let it blossom and guide, till its day outdone?

And I do, like a faithful wife, married to the word of faith,

die, to meet the one who sits above in name.

And you bestow me, with a place, and a hymn to be sung, for a

thousand years, a scent, forever free.

For they have killed me. And yet, I see.

A dew on a leaf, a smile on a child about to awaken,

a tear, of a woman whose son martyr'd.

And In these, shall I live.

A Woman's Paraphernalia

Her time stood still,

sitting behind the open door, she stared out.

Into the winter street, but into herself, reflecting upon her meagre,

beating heart.

The kaolin structures stood as still as they were meant to be,

But she wished for them to move.

For she so longed for movement,

a change from her black and white life,

playing out, like a broken frame, into the hands of time.

Her tears had faded into her skin and dried,

She was a ghost, floating in and out of her sanctity,

like a reflection without a cause,

an effeminate apparition.

They, were dimorphic, of the love she had never had,

and the one she had found and lost.

Her dolls were of all hues and sizes,

they sat, beneath the wreath, by the fireplace.

She sang to them. They were all that she had left.

Her old wooden doll house,the ceramic tea set,

she would lose herself every waking moment to her paraphernalia.

How she loved them!

Their meaningless echolalia soothed her,

ecdyated her, of her burdens.

Confined to the complexities of her residual emotions,

she comforted them each day.

In return, they helped her forget her bereavement,

and atone for the crimes she had befallen on herself.

No. She was not mad.

Unless being in love, is symbolic of some strange madness.

Its just that, she chose to love, what we fail to understand.