beauty attends

August 23, 2010 at 6:08 pm (art, poetry)
Tags: art, poetry

Page Ninety-four 

                                                                                                                                               

                                             She is Dead

                                             She is dead, they said,

                       and they gathered up the things of her days.

                                        Life’s little spindle,

                                          her gentle ways,

                                   the hopes of her pleasing.

                                       Her little vigil hours,

                              the chest of her maiden dreams,

                                the flowers of a gladder faith,

                                   the lavender of old tears.

 

                                           Afterwards,

                                       in one old chest,

                               in the room she had slept in,

                                they  found the gentle joys

                                                       of her waiting years.

 

                                                                       ~~  opal whiteley

more opal  ~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~   Share ~~~~~~~

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Opal never got whatever it was she spent her waiting years waiting for. Neither did I. Nor will I. Some people just don’t, no matter how concerted are the efforts they make. There’s a great deal of randomness to living, and some people just get much more ugly randomness than others do.

                                                                      

 

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