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Eliza
Member

since 2002-11-18

Posts 58

0 posted 2003-01-16 01:51 PM

Eliza wrote in volumes spiracle
voluminous tallies of pro, and con
as her writing threatened, lyrical,
the future she had spent her time upon.

A rumbled chant of woe to come
from the threatening voice of man ~
but she would block it with her hum,
her muse and she had plans.

So by dark of dimming light
gentle scratch of pen was heard,
soon she’d blink in softest light,
and would review her every word.

Truth, she wrote, the dreadful facts
of loss and heartbreak’s edge,
and lest his eyes view blackest tracks
the papers were ripped in shreds.

She told her muse, who shook her head,
“You know it could be worse,
for him to view what lays ahead,
if he were to read this verse.”

For love was gone, it had long died,
though still its spirit roamed,
no exorcise for it, it cried,
and it haunted the rooms called home.

Eliza wrote with passionate pleas
till her muse was all that remained
for love’s spirit, who found no ease
did not long to stay there in pain.

Eliza wrote in volumes spiracle
voluminous tallies of pro, and con
as her writing threatened, lyrical,
the future she had spent her time upon.

[This message has been edited by Sunshine (01-16-2003 02:23 PM).]

Nightshade