Sonnet 8

She waits like melancholy mounted on

A monument of sorrow. “Woe is me”

She chants, and waits, and waits till her waiting

Becomes her white veil of celebration,

Of a ceremony, a ritual

That left her hanging, decaying, dying.

Her funeral pyre, a ruler’s throne

Waiting for her to climb the fire. Now.

She walks down the aisle, a burying bride,

The fuming ashes patiently waiting

To engulf her. She is a waterfall,

Falling, slowly landing in her cold hearse.

She shivers and breathes her last vows, burning

She sighs, forever she remains mourning.

 

About the painting – “Swan Song” is a painting by Dorina Costras

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