TRAGEDY GIRL.

I think that we cannot weigh death.

Nor the burden it has on our hearts ever-fully.

There is no measure to give to that collapsing grief.

But you, my dear, are the crushing sort, and so, we weep.

So woeful in that loss of the good and young.

Mourning father

I think that each tragedy has that fated girl.

The martyr to burden sins of other, mirror

Of humanity, reflection of what is lost.

When man crumbles and becomes bitter,

When we allow our worlds to be ravaged with

Grief and ambition and jealously and revenge

And we are that tragic casualty.

I had a lover

Will you cradle my body and wash my blood away

With those tears you cry for my tragedy?

Can I give you regret – is that symbol all I am good for?

Will I be remembered only as my loss?

Or can I still be that sparkling diamond I was

Before.

And I had such life

Before it all came to pass, before

Roots paved their way insidious into our lives.

Turning of a clock, tick-tock to the flipping of a coin.

It all begins to change and we are so unhappy.

And we are so hurt and so grieving and so

Receiving of the wounds of others.

But then our worlds became murky ash

I am beautiful.

You all always see that.

But, how? In my death, and the paintings

You can commission to capture sorrow?

Framing me in remembrance of

my misadventured loss.

Flowers and soft strokes of innocent martyrdom.

Tragedy-girl, oil painting, heart-breaker as I lie broken.

And now from this bough I fall