Epithalamion, part 1

April 19, 2010

Her hair is bunched into a messy knot
uneven, greasy, tangled everywhere.
Her eyes that mark the only two bright spots
beneath the cake of dirt, do blankly stare.
Her neck is lined as though it were a tree,
as hard as bark, and fails to grant her speech,
for having felt the fiercest winds and storms
and never having known of soothing balms.
She holds a ragged shawl, and tries to breathe
in silence, stilled in painful memories.

She does not know that He will surely come.
to make her beautiful and take her home.

Though full of holes, though torn in many spots,
These rags she holds on dearly what she wears
So tightly clinched, with all the strength she’s got
As though their loss would be her biggest fear
In wintry cold she trembles silently
In shadowed nakedness she shivers weak
Until exhaustion brings an eye of calm
Then bites her back awake until the dawn.
Though morning rays do sometime bring her peace
They warm her knees but temporarily

Oh wretched soul your groom will surely come
To rescue you and bring you to his home


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