sad story, self #2 April 8, 2009

She wears her suffering like a crown:
Garlanded in sacrifice
Ornamented in hope –
But mostly there is sorrow there.
There is pain, there.

And it is pain that consumes her,
When the lights flicker low as Evening goes to his lover.
And then again –
Rising after a sleepless night
With the sun, an indifferent ruler who seeks to scorch his subjects with his
Cheap brilliance,
It is there.

For although she rises up
Singing,
like Ira predicted
It is not a song extolling freedom
But rather, in praise of her self-crafted
(Though admittedly haphazard)
Shackles.