The dear lily, the lurid freesia,
Whither would they survive?
Upon a tree of cottonwood,
Now a pile of ash, says the old potter,
Sings the whistling cockatiel; a song of death,
Would it tone with the setting?
The setting; a Victorian canopy;
A satin ensemble, beyond which lies a coffin,
A plain, old black casket,
Much like the corpse’s blackened heart.
Wonder did they all, the men in the locale,
The royal palace tailor, the regal cake baker,
And the children of yesterday; the young of today,
How did it strike; the deadly cirrhosis?
Whence did it arrive; an ailing liver?
Alas the man never did drink a drop of alcohol,
Nor smoked a cigar into the casement.
But they were men, and men are men,
We are the beginning, and are we not the end?
Said they, that he tormented his sweet-eyed daughter,
Chained her to planks of wood with whetted edges,
Plied a whip, a gift from his hunter daddy,
And marked her skin, all day and night.
Nor had the butler cared enough to bury the coffin,
Why pollute God’s acre?
They come by,
Is this not a palace so magnificent?
And each time spoke an ominous voice;
An old widow who was once a body seller,
Caramel-tinted skin with creases.
To each passerby she said, ‘It is I, the wife; the Ursula of the brothel,
And he, a sickening sinner,
While I sold my heart, in the cruel season of May,
He sold me.
Do you believe in destiny? ‘tis not God’s will. ‘tis my will.
But walk within, climb over the gates,
Break open the door and greet,
Greet his flesh and bones; the body of a sinner.
"I'm sharing snippets of some of the short stories I had written five years ago."
Picture Credits: @aditisrivatsan
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