Low and bound to the ground, she is as crumbled
as her world's surrounding harshness...
A floral crown of dissipated illusion
Graces the flaxen locks atop her head...
The vision of him is a dismal enthrallment
She recites his verse in careless solace
As she remains oblivious within her seclusion.
As she darts nimbly about the trees
His shadow lingers in her tracks,
The bittersweet scent of a past existence
Long since vanished.
Now staring straight ahead in solitude
Is this beautiful disheveled wretch...
O how strong is her yearning for a noble
And unfortunate fate;
To substantiate her words of troth,
Bequesting herself to the intricate waters
Of the beckoning and deadly ghyll...








Angela Boyce; 1998