Lillian Margaret Grey

1871

An infant in a basinet, her young soul

A pure sight, her young face framed by fiery curls,

A reminiscence of what innocence was.

1876

A child’s naivety, blossoms in her youth

Each lesson learned,

Dulls her spirit but brings a sage like wisdom to eyes like placid lakes,

Before an approaching storm.

1884

Her beautiful world, her delicate soul

A vision, a dream of love

A young girl’s heart, a wish of a pleasant prospect,

A pleasant prospect that she yearns to be part of

Grand estates, social events, a pleasant prospect

The poor soul, not to suspect the presence of misfortune

Her world, her beautiful world shattered in one

Her mother, a poisoned plague

The walking disease, tearing at her world,

Its hunger, yearning for more

Tearing the seams of her beautiful vision

Her mother’s passing, a gaping wound tarnishing her once utopian world.

1888

A young imagination, now stained with the wounds of bereavement

Her innocence now lost among the misgivings of her world

Her once fruitful outlooks, now spoiled rotten with the presence of doubt

Her eyes, once placid lakes,

Now run arid with the existence of drought

Her liberty now in the hands of a man she once thought she knew

Her father’s dark intentions, to give his little girl away

The unbound sparrow now trapped inside its cage,

Nowhere to disappear, nowhere to withhold

Her father’s greed, leaving a blinded man standing

Her breaking heart, her bleeding soul

An unnamed man to be her lover,

An unfamiliar prospect to be hers,

Love lost within the portrait of avarice

Her fraught pleas, disregarded, overlooked.

1889

A young heart, now a turned bitter by the act of betrayal

Once jovial, in high spirits,

Turned dim by the sinister undertakings brought before her,

The blood of her own, now boiling with the portrayal of loathing

The wedding gown, before her the stark white fabric

A beautiful representation, now seen only as surrender

Placed upon her shoulders, it feels unsuited

Fixed taut around her, strung as unyielding as it may go

With the relative’s approval, she can hear the shackles that follow

There soundless clatter, that haunts her thoughts

Her father’s orders, ever more burned in the cockles of her heart,

Glimpses of a lifeless face, her mother’s disapproval

Down the aisle, foreign and unfamiliar

The faces of strangers melting together,

A melting pot of the strange and unknown

Her father’s presence, her suitor’s prideful stance

Her once serene stare, now a turbulent storm

The flora upon her hand, a lovely breed

The man before her, young in appearance

As alluring to others, she sees beneath the beauty

To the silent creature, that lays dominant in waiting

The garland in hand, an uprising burning within her

Her eyes a blaze with the inferno of misery

Her stare lingering towards the man that bore her,

His expression that of ability, as the wintry company ruptures her

With sleight of hand the garland, slithering forth from her hold

The wedding dirge, thrumming inside soul,

Her world begins to quiver, her eyes finding the goblets

The goblets, with the wine of union,

With the mauve liquid, she falters then

The garland collapses as she settled on another end

Skirts in hand she decided her own path,

Emerging forth from the cathedral, she leaves only foot prints behind

For she knows that she has nothing left,

Through the darkness, she ran

Longing for an appropriate end, other then what was given to her

Against her skin the dagger, scorching with desire

Halts her flee, knowing her life can no longer be in the hands of others

She finds herself lost, among the pines

There maze relentless for escape

Unsheathing her dagger, she holds tight, knuckles turning white

Hand in hand, the dagger sits above her heart

She hears the thrum, she hears the rhythms

Aloud she prays to her mother, to those whom she knows love

As the dagger thrusts forth into her plagued heart

Piercing the heart that once beat for a world of love, a world of beauty

The blood, of the once innocent staining the fabric of what was not meant be.

1890

An unmarked grave, sits upon an old estate

Abandoned now, its inhabitants lost into madness and deceit

Only few know whose bones lay beneath the soiled earth

The bones of the innocent,

The young hearted, Lillian Margaret Grey

Whose own blood so brought her to her own demise

The sinful man whose presence; sense made its mark on the estates old halls

The lonely essence of a sorrowed soul

Her youthful heart eternally flowing with the blood of innocence

The blood of hope, of love, of a beautiful world

Her weeping heard from those who still kneel upon the earth,

To let the Grey girl know that love exists,

That her tortured soul did not deserve the treatment it was given.