Flight

Lone doting

Do not daggers let your words be.
Let all souls entreat and be treated with mercy.
To whom is your compassion hurled?
Does it toss and sigh without reply?
Or will the moon hang coldly above your world
Mocking thee as thy virgin affections lie
At the feet of your beloved who denies all betrothal.
And it consumes you with irate despair
To be certain you could bestow their joy eternal.
If only they thought thine oppressive doting ever fair.

This age is a bitter mistress
Who will snare at the roses we toss.
Upon her bosom it doth wither
Where it is redolent of her heartache, her loss.
Every weeping angel has a sculptor,
‘Tis the parentage of all pain.
When love like the plague catches
They surely are the first to be slain.

By Rohini James
Copyright October 2013
All rights reserved

As originally published on Right Brain Idealism