Lincoln's Response

And the thoughts of the girl, you may ask.

Quite the tragic heroine of her day.

Rapunzel waiting for her white knight,

The shining armor in which her reflection could dance,

A kind of mirror that could provide her beauty a glance.

As the good just man walks up, ensured of a kiss,

Lifting his mask, revealing a smile that runs a mile.

And She?

She stares into his chest plate,

Batting her eyelashes and combing her hair.

 

But,

He never comes.

And the fantasy remains.

For the love in our heads,

The playing of the part, the assignment of roles,

The theatre that we ourselves put on

Is much more real

Than tangible love.

The one that we can touch.

The one that we can feel.

The one that can break our heart in two.

This is Lincoln’s response.

 

The beauty sits, vividly painted by the pane’s eye

Against the cool brick wall. Eyes closed, dreaming

A dream of a dream that had left long ago.

Back to the stone, trapped in the corner,

The sun ascribing his final rays of that turn

Upon her pale face

 

The faded, dark imprints dance across the way,

His shadow, even, familiar to her ever watching eye.

Head in hands, droplets dripping to the Drain,

A leaky faucet that none could repair, nor wanted to.

A flip of the switch, space showered with light

In an attempt to escape the dark, senseless night

 

The trees had grown bare, the ground littered with brilliant

Reds, yellows and browns. Beauty in death, a romantic ideal,

The harvest moon lingering over a barren plain,

Over which the precession marches toward the reaper’s doorstep,

A grim gate that opens to a field filled with stones.

Her heart, enclosed in a box, interred, it’s beat stretching the oaken panels.