(A stand-alone verse…continuation of “Writing the Melodramatic”)
I am most definitely a male from a time long ago
My mind play tricks as the memories ebb and flow
One moment I am a contemporary woman in 2015
Then I sink into oblivion and grasp for esteem
As master of mine own home in the mid-1600s
I am well to do with servants at my beck and call
I am very cruel and evil to them all
The peasant woman who has joined me in my drafty, cold library
Is bleeding from two punctures in her neck so precarious
She cries out to me to stop draining her life’s blood
Her dress in torn and weathered, her boots caked with mud
She must suffer and die for attempting to flee my domain
We would have become such dear friends if only she had remained.
How can I be this creature who blossoms in the night
Turning his back on humanity and forsaking the light?