The Poet

The Poet

Sunday, April 16, 2017

Wild Sable Of Sorrows* by Bret Whitmore ©2017

She wears midnight; from whence who knows?
Such an angel she was in her youth.
Her loss so profound; spiked thorns from a rose,
Few ears can sustain her sad truth.
Where once ageless love did beat in her breast
Neither time nor dread storm could assail.
But a demon just laughed at its own befouled jest--
Took her love, claimed her child, left travail.
Death would not take her, though sorely she tried
While long decades ran down like her tears.
E'en fortune escaped her as memories died
And her visage it turned with the years.
Now black is her shadowless shape on the ledge
Where she wails ‘neath the moon’s pallid light.
Wild sable of sorrows, she shrieks from the edge
None can save her while she wears midnight.

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