The Fate of Gillan Davies

The fate of Gillan Davies,

Was not determined by the stars:

The lucidity of their fragile glow,

Was lost in the diaphanous veil of her thoughts;

Had become entangled in the trail her pigmented missteps,

Felt obliged to leave behind them.

No; the fate of Gillan Davies,

Was not whispered on the wind,

Like some listless lullaby of a bygone age:

The pale aura licking at her frosty lips,

Was silent and gentle as the doubts,

That perspire into the pores of our sanity.

The fate of Gillan Davies,

Was the subject of candle-light conversations,

Besmirched with the tantalising chill of surprise,

Like the fiery leaves of Autumn,

After they have been kissed by Winter,

And buried under Spring’s boastful embrace.

The fate of Gillan Davies,

Is not remembered any longer,

For the daffodils have carried her scent upon their wake,

And hidden her memory in a tiny glass bottle,

Locked away and taunted,

By the finite merits of a collective apathy.

The End

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