Bella

She walks as graceful as the night,

the wind billowing around her.

With silent eyes like shinning stars,

her tears falling short after.

 

Her golden hair is gleaming,

flowing down her dress of white.

Barefoot as she walks through

the starry sky of night.

 

As a child she always read

the magical poems by Coleridge,

and dreampt of being wisked away,

protected from the pains horrid singe.

 

I do not know of her true name.

All I know is Christable Anne de Winters.

For she has lost her one born self

and taken on one of another.

 

Her belief, she constantly voices,

always be true to thyself.

And never in the hardest moments

put thy momories away on a shelf.

Reviews

[Brown Bull]

A Mexican Bull I met once used the word Bella often when he spoke. He would look at the clouds or the flowers in the meadow or even a bird flying by and describe them as Bella clouds, Bella flowers, etc.

I enjuyed the story built into your poem as well as the style of it. I am left wondering who Anne really was and why she changed, perhaps after reading Christable. I do think many of us change from time to time into who we want to be rather than who we are.

BB