Ursula bequeaths her throne,
little is known of her past.
Tweeds are braided softly
so they fill the picture
till it’s bursting from volume,
reaching for forgiveness.
Following a sound from the forest
as handmaidens file in,
coiffed fine velvet, gold dripping edges
on an altered direction.
Hibiscus plants, purple lily bells
run in a circular motion …stillness,
walking in a single melody.
Sorrow fills the vestibule’s opening,
streaking watercolour hues of sadness,
prickling the senses, holding on …
as their skirts crease at fine hemmed edges,
nothing lost nor frayed,
frozen in the light of an unforgiving night.
Blindness has accompanied these women
who have laid their arrows down,
beleaguered by hostile forces
when fenced in by the wreath
completing a last voyage.
It’s a massacre in Cologne.
process notes: This is a poem I started
writing awhile ago, I decided to finally
Red Wolf Journal Spring 2014, and a fresh start
2 years ago