Charms and talismans adorn your dress, I stare at the candles and pass thru the mirror, always at your behest.
Peacocks and hen on the porch and yard abound... Picking, chanting and sometimes dancing, their chatter, movements mundane, and yet so inherently.... profound.
To whom do I declare myself? A huntress? A maiden, too close to the sea? ...is it my right to decline? Me thinks, "Perhaps another widow, deceptive and beautiful, striking her webs design."
Your name suits you.... Roma, my soul and countenance despite, to my heart you sprang and tarried... Memories now shadows of the darkest night.
Half closed...clearly torn... the gate shudders in the wafting breeze, warm but shattered...too cold to touch, I ponder my fate born of this queer and patent design, and scarred by folly and a proclivity to please.
oh they came from the other end of this dear old island good bit of the old irish in you smiling you have the old celt dna
Odette67Penrith, Cumbria, England UKApr 1, 2014
Excellent poem.
GMS75OPFlorida, USAApr 2, 2014
Thank you Odette...you are kind. Not all Arachnida bear the mark of the widow, nor do all inspire such a dreadful write as this... Thankfully, there are folk such as yourself that give reflection to one such as I that the "widow" is but a myth. Thank you again. Gregory
Comments (7)
thank you brother...you are very kind.
BTW...my family come from the County Cork area...
Peace
mark of the widow, nor do all inspire such a dreadful write as this...
Thankfully, there are folk such as yourself that
give reflection to one such as I that the "widow"
is but a myth. Thank you again.
Gregory