Blog, My Thoughts on You, Poetry

Tragedy of Atala

a virgin that was blown
to the ends of her sanity

he held tight to her legs
his face so contorted
frozen in mourning
a water colored purgatory

we all died
when she drank that bitter
infected wine

the blue magnolias shriveled
inside her womb- hanging over her head
as she slept


and now lay limp
her fire hair quenched
her belt cracked open
the key hanging from his mouth

it shouldn’t be this tragic, he said

but He too had failed
and she passed like the flowers
and dried as the grass of the fields

J’ai passé comme la fleur ; j’ai séché comme l’herbe des champs