Monday, June 7, 2010

A Woman's Work

I am now as wheat before her sickle,

Sinister and splintered scarred with mortal notches,

the blade falls, never fickle

my squelching end lies in the path of the whistling vorpal.


Sheathed in her sonorous syllables she

climbs a fatal octave, hands actively swinging

my capillaries now twitching, I pay my fee

to listen to the ballad of Atropos, lilting and stinging.

The vale profound became an emerald Styx as

the solitary ferrywoman rowed,


My vision swam, eyes seeking a point which to fix,

Though she’d no boat, over to me she gently flowed

Her sonata of sorrow bade me feel a shudder,

the closing note matched my heart’s final stutter.

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