Her name is Penelope,
Her hair a fine silk,
Her eyes are a warm amber,
Her smile is only legendary.
Oh how sweet,
My Penelope,
How tender your lips are,
How joyous your words be,
How I make you laugh,
To hear its melody.
No, not now.
Her name is Penelope,
Her hair tarnished red: matted,
Her eyes a glassy amber,
Her smile a distant land.
Oh how cruel,
My Penelope,
How chapped your lips are,
How lonesome your words be,
How I make you cry
When I wish for a sweet melody.
Is it because I'm covered?
Covered in my own blood?
YOU ARE READING
My Lonely Pathos
PoetryA series of poems, songs and whatever else is screaming in my mind. Pathos isn't something that comes to me, but when it does, it's written down and shared for those to see.
