The poem lay dying in the distance;
scarred cliches defy definition.
Somewhere, an owl un-sees the Shadow,
a nocturnal rhyme faintly re-sounds,
as the fading light of a crestfallen bard
casts false hopes on two lovers
who brutalized the Tree of Lies.
A satyr pours the sourest of wines
over a string of neglected verse,
nymphs wail nearby and try to salvage
a sweet syllable and break the hand
of the Maiden weaving matrixes
of lost tales that clutter the clearing
in secret.
--- Naomi Cammayo
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