Poetry

The Lady of Shallot

Deep high Matterhorn depths clear on top
Thunderous danger murdered under carriage.
What lies beneath?
A shattered corpse
A trapped siren?
If it calls it is a death knell,
A hymn hum to our sickened senses.
There is no glamour in a suicide watch,
No one will stop and applaud as you lay
Dying inside.
You stay at the place,

Dancing dragonflies whisper and beckon forth
‘Come sway with me’.
You are rooted to a dank spot your fungi feet spun down.

You forget your own life.
‘Come sing with us’.
Dead wood fingers grace the murk,
Rising moving.
The water is calling
Clear as grace.

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