I thought I’d know what to say about it by now. But I don’t – not in prose.
She lies enshrined in secrets in her grave,
beneath six feet of cloying, veiling soil;
the ‘whore’, the innocent they could not save,
the temptess torn from this cruel mortal coil.
None can know her failed and final aim,
and none can disentangle truth from art;
She lived and died in chaos none could tame,
with none the more acquainted with her heart.
Those who claim truth but grasp at brittle straws,
in desperate meaning-making of her deeds –
She sleeps within the Urth’s devouring maw,
and none can cipher what her lost heart reads.
So let her rest in shrouded mystery
and label not her deepest loyalties;
To the Lord her soul; her motives, history,
the rest of us keep naught but memories.
