for years, a quiet storm was brewing  -
singular woman, paramour of a Wiccan moon.
untouched by men, unknown, unfriended.
the march of static minutes, ensuing.
 
the village girls, whose hearts would flutter
for vineyard wines, for song and dance.
she languished under brooding clouds,
pallid flower, to wither in the gutter.
 
we curse our luck, the fates accuse,
we, who ventured into love and lost.
her days were desolate by more than half;
she never had a love to lose.
 
a dolent art was etched upon her face:
pale tear tracks, indelible as scars.
she sipped her tea at night, composing poems,
and launched them into cyberspace.
 
they found her on her bed, immaculately made.
~ gowned in white lace, from neck to ankles ~
furniture freshly polished,  gleaming.
a note against the lamp, crowned with a latticed shade:
 
     ‘I live a solitary life
     And in a solemn shadow, die
     I have walked a lonely street
     Outside my door, the constant night’
 
it was a scripture of particulate design:
a splendid red dénouement
in a cohesive light.