Meredith’s Love: For 9

Her verge neither moaned
nor changed when she was found
by the discerning ocean’s pound,
loudly dreaming no longer.

Pity pleads the sin that is silent,
wandering to the bed out of
context. No strength for the weak
will take her hand, shadow-like and

Dry. A bargained kill cures
the contempt of nobler agony
unless it strings it through flames
of bitter ill. Her moan

Verged on the battle bare, her
lips covered with the haunt of not
to know, the when forgot the part
of the heart to hold.

© 2008-09 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved