Wednesday, July 11, 2012


Ungrateful little girl,
Take this silence as your portion
All undeserving, sip your loneliness
And derive their pity from the pit.
Did you think you were so high
As of deserving slightest praise?
That whims would grace your mind,
Or he would chase you after all your words
Of haughty arrogance?
What have you earned?
Nothing, strikes the answer of the timid stone
Soft and supple, hard as hearts
From whence love is flown long and dreary.
Making merry from the ashen throne
With all the broken mirror pieces
Serving as a crown for she
Who calls the ice to be her bower;
In place of he who would have come
To offer warmth with darkened skin
And eyes like the sea
Where mermaids play the siren flute
In waves meant for the wonders.
Ah, but she, child of disdain
Would have him naught.
Being sick with bitterness for all
The time that marched
And in its passing left her there
Standing by the rolling breakers
Dim and broken, unshod feet had many miles
Into the sandy paths once beat only to find
He was not.
Not a word, nor a sigh, and was he gone
Without good bye.

©2012, MLowe. All Rights Reserved

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