An oriel consumed in a ceaseless wait,
Where longing lights like a pyre,
And winter inflicts a cold scorch.
A fire keeps raging in feeble rains.
A window now lies unfastened,
Gasping to peer in broken panes,
Beyond the banks of a river in spate,
Battling invasions of forlornness,
Armed with slipping gasps of hope.

A desire survives in choked sparks,
Those stand buried under tombs of slate.
Faint shadows as drab as coal,
Lurking behind frames so dark,
Drawing images of fear and dread.

But she sits calm by the corner,
Leaning her head by the crumpled bow.
The night drew long,
And the wind was still.
By the shattered glass she keeps a vigil,
A vow must live,
And she must await.
Someday,
one day her dawn will break.

~S~

bow

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