White Waters: Poetry Collection

Pain by the Windows

Pain by the Windows

To meet a good sir by his window pane,

Increases the chance of a warm hand to behold,

Also the beating of his fair maid,

Whence married,

Doth shall occur, for the

Wife looked on, from a

High roof, to throw herself down and

Lie at cold feet, a

Sacrifice made for the guilt.

Now is that hand so warm to behold, your remorse

Bearable, even to, softly, hold?

Though little voices chatter,

On the window rain patters,

And chimes bells in your crown till,

And still never weeping ignored by the lord,

The moat draws in, hangs you high up.

While your tresses, trail on the

Floor, you weep, forever alive.

So bear the guilt well, and

Never to return, you despised

For a fake accusation, on thy ears,

On hers, a weight lifted by the truth.

The descent to your life, shall

Forever best be known as a screech, birds

Fly high to hear your maid die, inside

A pit of despair awaits.

How is the gravestone, both

Wives at a match, better for another

Than you at a patch. Maybe an elf's ear can hear

Your sweet sorrow, but I only hear an

Arrogant, self-indulged, sing-song drone lament!

Your quest unvanquished was avenged, in

White Waters.