Muse |
Muse |
When the moon, upon her glazed face, Shadowed by cloud and wrapped in twilight wisps, Turns the tide, which, in the night Now appears cloaked and cold, Bracing the lonely lulls of the bay; A moonlit walk has never been so bleak. For in the day, the sweet water trickles, The waves raise their heads back And bask in the merriness of new light; A crown to bear all beamish joy. A boy chortles to a hand held Outright and clasping in happiness. But for the spite of a refusal, A spit to the heart drives through, Though roughly like a splintered cane, It has all been in vain; The glorious light will fade again. As such a fire is quenched, The embers still burning ragged and coal-torn; A red room is filled with ghosts: Loves lost, lonely and long-gone. How does one go on? Return to a glimpse, those sparkling dances, Fleeting as a blink in a falling rain, A smile on the face of pain. The moon may rise and burst in stars, If but her gown drapes over to hide the scars. Originally written September 2015, age 19
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AuthorSamantha is a doctoral researcher researching the power of figurative language in advertising, social media, and mobile technology. Copyright © 2022
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