Upon musky days
Whatever father sorrowfully played
Tall Violet sang and tall Violet swayed
Bringing a pillow to her ears
When the cadenzas crumbled to dirt.
Skies set ablaze, consumed by Violet
Laying on a half-clear-linen-bed, held by her pearls
Violet let out silent cries, though sounding awfully harmonic
Violet, pleasing the hand that fed her.
She grew far into a mold lined with molten steel
Then was thrown out onto Harlot lane
Reduced to an opprobrium,
Though dead or alight
The sun never arose for the woman;
A lone-lifeless-night-walker
A projection of many fantasies.
Now, Violet, lying close by her imprecation
No one is here to throw the dirt
- Like they were to feed it to her
Violet, no use without a mouth to scream
Or a man to please
YOU ARE READING
Roses In Death
PoesíaPoems strung together by notes, telling the story of a love that arrived and passed.
