Woman with penciled brow
Your icy womb was once a glorious fortress
Whose wrought-iron gates held me waiting
A witness to the party within, never a reveler
Today the portcullis is risen
All manner of visitor walk the cold hall
But where once a festive light cast jocular shadows
Only shadows remain
The heavy oaken thrown-room doors
cracked open—the one on the left leaning off its hinges
I spy within a gnarled mass and shake my saber
The edge dull from battering your stone walls
It's about a girl I once loved. My feelings were not reciprocated. Well, not entirely. She had a condition which may have, by now, necessitated a hysterectomy. I've not spoken with her in years. I think she wanted to write children's literature.
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