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.




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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