She whispered softly to those that could hear,
the kind of story that we all fear.
One of crimes into the night,
against her will with hands bound tight.
She whispered soft, "please let me die,"
empty and shallow she felt inside.
No one would ever understand her shame
for her attackers she knew by name.
Never once did she think that she'd be raped,
not by her father or by her date.
Beaten, discarded, left by the trash,
relief in moments she'd be dead at last.
Would it be said that she was to blame,
for she dressed as whore or about the same.
I looked into her eyes that were cold as ice
she said, "write the story, so they'll think twice."
Hi Tracey,
In sanctuaries soul,
There be no gain,
In miseries bole,
Remoulded pain,
In death's servitude,
Be there gratitude.
Morchuis
Reviewed by Tomas Ughdair (Reader)
Reviewed on April 21, 2002
Your poem recalls to mind the moaning and pleading of All Soul unrequited, unrecognized and forgotten. I would liken it to a romantic ode titled: Lament of Nature. Lovely poem of gentle strokes crying tears in purple rain.
Spoken Word
This CD will touch the deepest inner part of your humanness and spirit, you will never be the same after listening to the depths of struggle, the reality of life, the touching voice of truth. It will shock you, move you to tears. It w
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Janet xoxoxoxo
Nice thought provoking piece!!!!!
Sandie Angel :o)
Trixie
In sanctuaries soul,
There be no gain,
In miseries bole,
Remoulded pain,
In death's servitude,
Be there gratitude.
Morchuis