Lilith

She walks on the edge of our world, forgotten,

A vision in white and with long black hair

That covers a face that from malice has rotten

And leaves her to wander in spite and despair.

.

Sometimes she weeps and sometimes she rages,

The memory of her passed down through the ages

As the one who would not make a lord of a man,

And for this, she is swept from the good book’s pages.

.

Was it a crime or was it a blunder

To cling onto pride and refuse to go under?

Was it worth tearing the heavens asunder?

Would she do differently now, I wonder.

.

Maybe it’s loss and maybe it’s sorrow

That makes her walk like there’s no tomorrow

Away from the darkness, away from the hate

That from her endless anger, borrow.

.

They are the dogs that bite those who feed them

And she is the dog that bit her lord’s hand;

No matter how precious, how much of a gem,

She remains a monster; from paradise, banned.

.

.

.

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This entry was published on December 19, 2012 at 5:01 PM. It’s filed under Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

write the fox

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