A Queen Without a King

In an average city home, at the backroom of the house,

the brokenhearted woman moans the passing of her spouse.

She’s as delicate as linen and as stern as pencil lead,

fading like a shadow as the sun shines overhead.

The books are on the shelves, and the clothes are on the line;

The children dressed themselves, and the dogs are doing fine.

There’s milk in every cup and food on every plate,

a fork in every hand, and at the head a missing place.

The leaves still fall outside, and the world spins ever on.

The days are passing bye, like they don’t care that he is gone.

She’s alone each night in bed and alone each each day in fear,

with a brave face for the kids, but things are not as they appear.

She is a stream without a dam, a lock without a key,

a light without a stand, and a bird who cannot sing.

About as happy as a kitten wondering helpless in the woods,

she’s looking for a pathway, but assumes she is lost for good.

She desperately recalls the every word he ever said,

as loud and soft as siren calls and whispers on the bed.

His voice was deep and wide like the fountain in the song

that her children sing at church that reminds her that he is gone.

But if she is a ship without a sail, a sea without a tide,

if she feels like someone nailed her to a cross and pierced her side,

She is not alone each night in bed, she is not alone each day in fear;

there is a light on up ahead that has a cure for every tear.

One Response to “A Queen Without a King”

  1. I mostly like this, especially the line “as delicate as linen and as stern as pencil lead” – except that linen isn’t really delicate; you might use “lace” or something else instead. And I would add that anyone who’s lost a spouse will probably never have a “cure” – comfort, perhaps. No cure. Oh, and it’s “passing by,” not “bye.”

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