Moon Blanched

Moon-blanched nightscapes match the pale face,
That stares out between curtains, as she thinks
The hours roll on - each has its petty pace,
That stumbles like a drunkard towards drinks,
Which line the bar of her imagination;

The scallop shells she gathered from the beach
Are sitting scrubbed upon the table, where
She well remembers how he took the peach
Between her legs; and made her self-aware,
Without a word or any explanation;

Now she's mute - she finds it hard to swallow -
A nocturnal swan sans excitation;
Here's her nest of misery - she'll wallow,
Cursing the past: resigned vituperation...