Carrying her sorrows in silken sac,
unwavering whilst weaving wildly.
Under a sombre sun, or callous cloud,
she spits, and hisses;
feeling jilted.
Centuries since she's
been hopeful;
eight eyes, wide open,
filled with wonder.
Mourning every almost happy ending,
crushed as she counts
one less blessing .
Scarlet letters sealed
her fate as a spinster,
wrongfully accused
of eating men for dinner.
Society classified her as
a sinner,
once jade, emerald,
but now black widow.
So she spun her salience armed for battle;
no army could have anticipated her arrival.
Adorned in a coat made of her ex-lovers.
Hell hath no fury like the venom inside her.
No comments:
Post a Comment