The Maiden
A poem about repentance
I rose and fell,
I heard the knell
Of times passed long ago;
With wicked heart
And wilted art
Then, little did I know
The things I did,
The wounds I bid,
The sorrows I did tell
To ears I took for mute
But were too beautiful
To paint my hell.
The evil strong,
The journey long
And daggers in my chest
Could only lead
To my misdeed
At very worst or best.
My senses dimmed,
My failings skimmed
Had done me very wrong,
But more than me-
Me, less than she-
Was she bent by the throng.
The danger smelt
Or horror felt
Did not strengthen my guard
But did dissuade
My barricade
To make a weeping bard-
I sang my bit
As I thought fit
Still, little did it melt -
My audience of one
I hadn’t won
By singing with my belt.
My biased sight,
The horrid light:
I have let myself stray
From barest track-
One filled with black-
I tread another way.
I fear still
The lonesome mill
That pounds into her, fright
Of my old road,
My old abode:
My beloved of the night.
Repent, repent your past
And breathe, breathe your last.
Experiences unite us. I believe words can provide these experiences. The Poet is just one of many ways to share them.
The Poet fuses my reality and imagination using rhythm and rhyme.
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