Imogen Mourns Beauty...

In a fortress of old,
lavish white stones,
long, long ago,
a white dagger
was swathed in a black
sheath.

Beauty had no
knowledge of this,
I watched her become
enslaved to the Prince,
given, for no price at
all, yet her bounty was
considerable.

I hid, in the cracks
of the parchment
that sealed their vows.
A sylph of rainbows,
an innocent smile,
and there,
the white dagger
emerged.

Her colours were
gone, - I clutched
my bright skeins
in fear of losing them too, -
such was my soul's shock,
at seeing it done,
before my unseen eyes.

I know not what
became of them, but I
heard her name had
changed to reflect one colour -
that's all - and heard
the deafening sound of
the wailing wall.

Yours, if only for now,
- Imogen Crest.
copyright Monika Roleff 2005.