Dire rockers declaimed as not her thing,

But Mark and Emmylou sure can sing

About dead Jesse and his Belle,

With stoner Richards under her spell


Flighty once seemed an apt descriptive,

Not predatory as deemed prescriptive,

Yet journey’s passage dimmed the lens

That held no hint of absorbed pretence


Where is that lady once thought so grand?

Now hiding away in bishop’s land

That frames and names her life of sin,

Behind false pride and deceit so slim


To surface time and time again

When need is great and money thin,

Not problematic was the thought,

For one left long ago distraught


Try as he may to move along

Past stanza of her cruelest song,

 Peace eludes when words unspoken

Were not once offered as a token


Or even slight acknowledgement

Of sincerity proclaimed and eloquent,

As caring heart would think to proffer

In withdrawal of the warmest offer


“Sorry”, a word quite unfamiliar

To one more comfortable as a liar,

No explanation, no expiation,

To balance life-long deviation


But no, she chose the passive road

And left in tattered wake a load,

A glitter pile of bitter thought

And crucial lessons never taught


 To ignore the lilting siren call,

Arriving unbidden before the fall,

A soul mate’s fate to be turned away,

How frail and faint those feet of clay


Glib pronouncements of warrior sect,

So carelessly used to then dissect

Frog-like, prostrate, on Petri dish

Where strumpet does as she would wish


It goes in circles, an endless rhyme,

She does the crime but never the time,

Instead content to allow the withering

Of those whose hearts no longer sing.



Copyright r.b.franklin 28/01/08


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