by Lynn Carole Brown
Mad with grief, she wanders near;
The water, where she cries from fear,
And knows not how to deal with love;
That scorned her heart, a fragile dove.
Why love would ever be so cruel;
To make of her, a trusting fool,
Then pluck her heart from out her chest;
To toss away, a maiden’s best!
She stares into the water’s lines;
To seek some sign of life’s design,
But only sees her own disgrace;
As watered by her lovely face.
Then, places flowers on her grave;
A welcome from the wretched knave,
Confusion takes its darkest blow;
And sends her to the depths below.
A fluid death gives dewy dreams;
But life, a suffocating scheme,
Ophelia fair, you came to be;
A warning of love’s misery!
I feel the creeping of the vines;
Inching their way toward my soul.
Their crawling fingers twist my mind;
Strangling life, their rooted goal.
I can not blame their woven crush;
On nature’s stealthy loom,
For nature did not bid them rush;
‘Twas apathy, brought my doom.
I’ll wait, to watch the flowers die;
Then wait for bloom again,
Not caring for the reason why;
My life was loss or gain.
I see myself, in the stream,
Or is it just reflection?
A mirror of myself within,
Or superficial specter?
Transfixed, I gazed, for deep insight;
With reclamation eyes, but lost the view,
Clouded by the muck of muddied roles,
A clay model formed by the world.
Blindly, I’ve lost sight of myself;
Authenticity, smothered again,
Seeking to surface a watery grave;
To breathe a true life from within!
I reached for me, but only grasped;
The water’s liquid mirror,
While fractured ripples of myself;
Recoiled, with rhythmic fear.
ABOUT Lynn Carole BrownBorn in Missouri, US, Lynn Carole Brown has always been keen on legends coming from Ireland and children stories. She writes about feelings ranging from despair to joy and all their emotional siblings, initiated by spontaneous inspiration. She is influenced by Oscar Wilde, Emily Dickinson, and Charles Dickens, Silvia Plath, E.E. Cummings, Robert Frost.
all rights reserved LB 2016
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