Lady Madelyn

Her eyes were black as coal,
Windows to a gentle soul,
Filled with love,
Consumed by fire
As she stroked her humming lyre.
Her fingers coaxed the sweet notes on,
Delicate as a birdsong,
There and then gone.
A tear trickled down her lovely face,
Like a hole in a ruffle of lace.
No song could touch
The broken heart
That lay within
The aimless art
Of Lady Madelyn.

His eyes were like the mist,
His cold lips unkissed.
Lover lay dead on the field,
With naught but a shield.
Lady Madelyn could only weep,
Weep for a promise
He did not keep.
He did not return upon his steed,
Head high with rugged pride;
Indeed,
In a casket he met his bride.
A funeral pyre
They built.
She strummed her lyre
Consumed with guilt.

And so she sang,
Sang his eyes back to life.
She who was his wife,
Set his smile in the notes.
She wept for the sword that killed him,
And the shield that defended him not,
Sang and never forgot,
The feel of his arms around her.
Her song drifted,
Lifted by the wind,
Falling like rain,
Her sorrow, her pain,
So profound
It found
Itself spilling from every eye.

Her eyes were black as coal,
The dying embers of her soul,
As singing,
She breathed her last breath,
The echo ringing
Even after death.
Lady Madelyn by the window lay,
Lyre silent,
Skin turned grey,
Her heart by her lover's grave,
Born by the song she gave.
Her lullaby
As death drew nigh,
Filled each heart,
That rose within,
The undying art,
Of Lady Madelyn.

by Emma Atkinson

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