she glides in the still pool,
her golden locks spilled in water
half hides her face.
a work of renaissance art
scintillating under the light of the night
the cold she felt within is reflected on her lips, blue
for she kissed not a mortal but an ivy before parting.
they say she was mad
never asked why?
she longed for sanity
not that she didn’t try.
dejected by love, rejected by mirth
the faces she met always cold and wry.
no more in conflict with herself
she sleeps in eternal peace.
the nightingale sings the dirge,
she wears the shroud of the night breeze.
the heaven weeps,
long spells of rain.
and in the distance
the church bell chimes.