1823 Kayla, Old France

Days pass by the meadow weir,

faces pass with rush they seem,

so content to be, so curious for me.

I am clenched by the throat with hands in my spine,

forcing  a smile, acting as fine.

I am far by the creek where I brush my long hair,

where I wait for my swain who’s tall & fair.

I am surrounded by trumpery, claiming my eyes,

yet they tell me to hide from the filth & the lies.

Months pass by the meadow stream,

and I am far from the madding crown.


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