deepundergroundpoetry.com
The butchery of Penumbra
She broods, from her rocking chair.
She's a comely, becoming, dissembling waif.
She holds her denouement in such eloquence.
Yes, fetching Penumbra, speaks in riddles,
ole speech has slipped new age's mind.
She's the scintilla, the talisman of Shakespearian years.
In hours, months, weeks or days the epiphany will hit the masses;
like an effervescent secret, a chinese whisper.
It could change from ear to deaf ear, tintinnabulation, loud and clear.
The children will skedaddle, back into the house,
for some nincompoop will whisper of her witchery.
Mother's will mollycoddle their blue eyed boys,
and gobbledygook will pass from knitting needle to crotchet needle.
She's brooding, from her rocking chair,
a few little tears, gracing perfect, porcelain skin.
She's the mother of passion, of memory, rebirth.
A woman should never be destined to hide from her fantastical truth.
They've tied a rope to the Cellar Door,
and as they go to drop her feet,
as they let her fall to a dalliance with death,
she opens her mouth to finally speak...
looking at them with her evocative eyes
one foot from the stool,
two feet from the stool,
gasping for breath,
swinging from her nemesis,
offing the world with her pyrrhic gains,
she whispers...
Published 6th Jan 2011
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6th Jan 2011 2:31pm
this is beautiful... i keep wanting to say you've outdone yourself because i can see it rolled out like a blood red carpet, but you've got tons of other greats. this one hits me hard today though. wonderful work. [:
6th Jan 2011 2:35pm
Thank you, Jestalessa... I felt like using beautiful words to show the ignorance of masses, something that seems ugly that isn't. :) I was going to let her say some beautiful word but I thought actually the most beautiful thing is a mystery :)
