And lo, she floats upon the sea,
her bodice stained with memory.
She sought true love, but failed to find.
Instead she took leave of her mind.
Her soul was split; her words were cursed.
Her sleep was tortured, then it got worse:
she found her love with another dame.
That was the night she went insane.
She ripped and cut. She raged and tore.
She used her strength till there was no more.
The bodies were thrown off the cliffs that night;
she waved farewell on their final flight.
Now Satan waits along the shore
to collect the husband and his whore,
but for the widow, it is said,
she’ll live her years afore she’s dead.
Author’s note: this poem was written in response to a prompt for this month’s Random Acts of Journalling. I just thought I’d share it here, too. Cheers!