A slender figure, decades old.
Sitting with her cage, made of gold.
Long dead eyes look out to see the sky.
But her sight is too blurred, for her to see by.
She waits for him with the letters cutched in her hand.
Waiting for the winged bird to come with like magical wand.
Her white cold hand touches the paper.
Ages old and decayed, like forget-me-nots they smoulder.
Turning into dust, valued at nitch.
She smiles as she wonders if her looks still bewitch.
Dreams in her dreams wearing the white wedding gown.
She tries to remember love as just a noun.
Spiders weaving cobwebby tale make home in her bosom.
A sad destiny indeed for a maid so lissom
Stares at the images on the wall, vision flickers.
Tomorrow she'll be gone with no trace; faith never wavers.
Waiting for him, she must,as she always had.
Letting not a tear fall, as promised to her lad.
The room is his, so are the letters.
But she lives there in her mind, bound by imaginary fetters.
For there is her mind- passion glows.
For there is that room emotions overflow.
