One Wife's Laments.


One Wife's Lament.



Empty, crushed,
this dirge I must wail
of wedded vows rent
asunder by a hammer's fall.

What was lead-ached in his chest,
now lead-aches in my penciled woes,
of my own severing I can attest,
from dreams pursed in my soul,
since just a wee lass.

My hope chest beaten with bare fists
my breasts plated in bitter herbs,
exiled to the isle of widowhood,
from when last my love
left his most cherished
embarking over desert sands.

Bound to the king's guard
in pursuit of the oiled palms
of wealthy lords blood-lust,
killing barbarians for black gold,
under pretenses of massive catapults.

Wizards weaving weapons of mayhem
that would set my beloveds homeland at risk,
forked tongues in castle walls
instigating unnecessary battle.

Secret schemes becoming endless screams,
in the cradle of Babylon.... rocked,
and so he bid me wait as he set off
to slay the fictional dragons others raised.

Without any proper armor, rushed to fight
in chariots rendered coffins by strength's  lack,
flag draped and wheel-less, ruined he returned
in the belly of a winged sarcophagus
his dissembled heart penned deeply in a plot,
that wrote not of our once forever love.

The stench of death dissolved
the bonds we pledged,
I'm wed to a stone cross, and flower beds,
Golgotha times ten thousand crosses raised,
near one that breaks my heart at Arlington.

They bade him dwell in
earth's cave where he'll sleep,
midst hiber-nations of young men entombed,
while I at daybreak wander, bringing wreaths
of poppy's much like he might have been known,
by tiny sired flesh, their poppy gone.

Before the seed was sown, now fallow fields,
embrace his flesh, held tight by mother earth,
while far above his one love weeps his loss,
while other sobs are heard on distant slopes.

One wonders that the tears in gallons shed,
would not have bloomed an endless daisy field,
of petals left un-plucked by those who rot,
who whisper once I loved, but love is naught,
it lies slain in the last battle they fought.

During useless war that callous leaders sought.
six feet above the somber widows wring
their empty hands and hearts then stagger home,
and leave behind their dreams reduced to bone.




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