Blog music poetry WRITING



oft without gesture
the maid bows her
dignity beneath the
napkin on my skirt

fingers filled with
oil i cling to linen as
if it will absorb the
distaste of nobility

mother nods and
without a word her
wine glass continues
the overflow from

father’s contemptuous
spirit gazing down at
us from the painting
overlooking the hall

way behind where
i dance in disobedience
with what the world
has called civil unrest

yet never do we tire
against the mute
affection holding us
together by strings of
tender contentment

far louder than the
slavery embedded in
these palace walls

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