Pain,
Its Sting So Early
Fading
by
C.B. Anderson
Arise, dear Sarah,
from thy sullied
bed,
Awaken from a
troubled sleep
And dwell upon
the plundered
maidenhead
Thou falsely thought
was thine to keep.
If shame ill suits
thee, dear, then
blame the wine,
Or blame thy readiness
to trust
That tall, well-spoken
cavalier of thine
Who overcame thee
with his lust.
For breakfast
now, an apple
or a peach?
Thy lap was like
the apple Eve
Once proffered,
moist and firm,
and poised to
teach
A truth no man
shall disbelieve.
So little hast
thou lost: a shred
of skin,
Mere parchment
hardly worth the
pain
It costs to rue
its loss -- the
greater sin,
To shun what Nature
doth ordain.
But will he marry
thee? Alas, he'll
not,
For thou art broken
-- though as fair
As ever in the
eyes of men whose
lot
Has been to beg
for thee in prayer.
©
2009 by C.B. Anderson
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