Sunday, June 16, 2013

THE WIDOW.

She stands, spectrally shrouded
A dotted point in a map of variegations
Where, imperceptible, faint
She bears the indelibly inconspicuous
Stamp of fulcrum where

Frayed values , contingent, superimpose
The shadow of their gloaming and render
Penumbral the luminous sanctity of her being.

They trace along her seamless skin
Signs of wrinkled puckering, seeking
To actualize a grief, whose palpability
Would make it authentic.

They conglomerate and ululate, wailing
Requiems of loss yet irradiate within their
Pent up bosoms, the thrilling spectacle of a woman
Denied life.

If she were a man she'd turn
Celebrate patrimony and immortalize being
But being an absence, weightless, formless
Her forlorn grief dissolves into nothingness.

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