Lady Grey

It is here I sit alone
Upon this dark, and soiled throne
With nothing to hold on to but my name
And when I sit alone and try,
To find my head and hold it high
All I do is cry, and then I wallow in my shame
Until there’s nothing left to point at but the blame

Those faceless names upon their pictures
These languorous words scrawled upon their scriptures
Mock me with their silence, and their stare
But mockery is nigh contagious
So I’ll laugh aloud and burn the pages
And strip the walls until they’re naked
And they’re bare;
Until there’s nothing left to do but sit and stare.

My love is but a rose, withering in crimson
From its petals to it’s stem
Yet without solid foothold to the ground;
Which is what I wish to apprehend
And from those petals I shall concoct a potion
Yet, I do believe it’s for the best;
Of any formal measure of devotion,
That I am disinclined to acquiesce --

For my seed was planted long ago,
And as of yet refused to grow