And her candling laughter illuminates,
all the thoughts of these confederates.
Who sit there talking with their friends,
asking her to entertain the lions' dens.
And her tears of chaotic despair emanate,
from within the broken mirror it penetrates.
And she heeds the voices with endless cries,
as slowly her fiasco falls and dies.
Whilst the mask her hand has carefully weaved,
crumbles down to touch the autumn leaves.
For chortling the arm of her surroundings,
has twisted the base of her confounding.
For producing laughter in this madness,
has brought her only tingling sadness.
For as her beloved gaiety they cheer,
her sadness is still her greatest hear.
For as they look at her and smile,
her bony throat can barely hold the bile.
YOU ARE READING
Poesy of Eloquence
Poetry❝ this tragedy is soaked with tears that dry the ink in my hands. ❞ ━ the poesy I've yearned to release ever since I taught myself to pick up the pen and write. ❝ for if the painting of my words be the garden upon the gate of heaven, glimpse them...
