You’re cold as a grave,
Emotions all but dead.
Spirit locked in a crypt, decomposing,
Pulse hanging on by a thread.
The world you wed
May be elegant,
But, hell, it’s stolen your soul.
You’re barely a stencil of what you were,
Forty odd years ago.
No flesh on your bones,
Or heart in your day,
You play the role that’s asked.
Where can I find the feisty woman,
Who had no care for class?
She felt hunger,
Devoured books like bread,
Wrote stories into the night.
Determined to publish the words she spun,
She’d be an author, alright.
Her mind, it simmered
With curious thoughts,
That didn’t always concur.
Fearless of voting a scarlet red,
She loved to provoke, and stir.
A generous friend,
Who picked up the phone,
Felt connection deep inside,
And when her heart bled, it didn’t stay sealed,
It couldn’t have, if she tried.
Woman, that marriage
Has frozen you closed,
Numbing your voice, your truth.
You’ll never be happy, feel alive again,
If you stay here shivering, and mute.