Her Lament

I had to experience her death. I couldn't write it any other way than that of a poem.

Her Lament

 

What use had she for a name

Without the soul, whom she loved,

There to whisper in her ear?

Nothing compared the bareness,

The void sundering the heart

And shredding it to pieces;

Swept by wind and to the sea,

That to which she was spellbound.

But to whom has living served

That it matter she choose life?

Demons! they look upon her

Like an act, a performance!

She, the unwilling comic;

They, the harrowing spectre.

To be defiled one thousand times,

‘Twas more bearable than this,

For when she knew such torment

Numbness filled all senses, and

Life and death had not meaning.

Hollow then and hollow now,

But to this, the loss of love

Has rendered life meaningless.

What use had she for life--love!

--When all is easily lost; and

If not lost then shall refute

All ideas of love at all?

The ground below, how it taunts,

Calling the name she has denied

So long as his breath has ceased;

For there is purpose--the leap!

To fly and again have name,

A name that of which whispers:

Deny the demons their play!

This was hope that wings could bear;

The sky took her deep embrace.

Author's Note

I am a lover of Shakespearean prose; I am sure it's rubbing off here.