The Pale Maiden dwells
Within the burning willow tree,
Buried amidst the fog
Of a spectral sororitty.
Snared within the bole,
An unfeigned oblivion,
Trapped by her love,
For that heartless Corinthian.
She is a prisoner of the meadow,
Where she waltzed in her youth,
She knows it is he
Who still hides for the truth.
As she watches him court
The latest damsel in his life,
The dry tears fall, how could he?
She was to be his wife.
The third, or the fourth?
All will be forgotten in time.
Each struck by his blade,
The perfect romantic crime.
The auric ring of deceit
Sits on each victim's finger,
An aching reminder of lost love,
The dire token of betrayal, shall forever linger.
There is no escape
From her bastille of deception,
She weeps, in solemn silence,
A soul stolen by one of life's,
Impure perfections.
--Written by RyanBH
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Poetry for a Thought Contest
RandomWhat inspires you most? Is it the way your cat balances precariously on the fence or the way a single leaf floats gradually to the ground. Whatever it is, write about it.
