Widows Might

Seeming treasure,

bitter fruit,

grown in icy altitudes.

Once a gift,

perceived as pleasure,

self deceived 

beyond all measure.

Seeds are planted,

grown to weeds-

flowers bend to craven needs,

now sacrificed

on bended knees,

to fragile, broken

bleeding streams.

Say what you wish

not what you mean

then hear your pleas

Transmute to screams.

A widows mite,

so ill conceived, 

But fools are buried 

where they dream.

A rotting corpse,

so blind obscene;

your faith and hope

Speak blasphemies.


Author: moonmaenad

Unskilled Navigator of this ocean we call life..somebody throw me a lifejacket STAT…or a clever and friendly dolphin

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