A Lady in Mourning Grey

A Lady Dressed in mourning grey,

waited until the break of day,

held her daunting eye to the window.

She gazed glassy eyed afar from where she sat.

From three, through midnight; unwavering  until eight o’clock daybreak.

She saw not the forest of pines,

alluring in magical darkness shade,

she saw not the rabbits,

nor the raptors,

the ravens, the crows,

all that devoured them so.

The grasses swayed,

made forth patterns in the bitting wind.

The lady dressed in mourning grey.

She dared not weep nor pray,

yet glassy eyed, so as already said.

The sky, scarred red, marred orange

outrage made yellow.

Till blackness encompassed.

All she felt,

was a pang in her chest,

she seized unto her breast.

Then, laid her hand at the gentlest ease.

Fell her head upon the glass.

There! That is how she sat and watched,

from three to midnight to eight.

Now, the companions of her house,

became at bay,

and when not had heard

their mistress at break of day.

They stirred to see what was the matter.

And a quarter after eight.

A blue eyed babe,

withe golden locks of hair.

Decked in dainty stockings and leather shoes,

saw her mistress so despondent,

she called upon the old teddy bear.

And the noise maker awoken the alley.

Descended all the toys to the grey lady’s way.

The soldier weeped,

the jack in the box,

ah! Alas, such a man cannot creep.

So the cannon man,

he seized her strings;

that of the lady in grey.

Many monkeys made music.

Everyone stood in line,

as they carried the marionette away.

Ah, march on meager toys!

march further,

to what closet awaits!

They weeped for their mistress; she had been so kind.

Yet they warned her,

not to leave fantasies of childhood to be gone by.

Yet malicious girl, told them a lie.

Sold her heart to a mortal man,

 yet he left her to be abandoned.

Now she is one of them,

into the closet of forgotten a childhood.

Dragged by her new growth of strings,

a petty marionette,

the strings of her heart they pull, her body they reap.

She has but become,

yet another marionette.

Author's Note

Was inspired by this while listening to Funeral March of a Marionette by Goubod. I meant this poem to tell a story of a young girl who left her childhood behind to pursue the love of a man who abandons her. Metaphorically her misery turns her into a marionette and forces her into a closet. The control the man holds over her is signified by the strings.

Reviews

[Brittany DeFranco]

I love it and feel awfully bad for this character, but that's what makes it such a great write!! ^_^

[zainul]

Wonderful imagery.
It may be a common phenomenon of our life.
Your poem is a glowing example.
Other girls or women pass through such lives of marionette.
It matters little if we like or unlike.