Glum am I, engrossed in grey mourning fog,
Wherefore, I do not possess knowledge of.
My present is but "now", this ashy grog,
Yet, there am I, in youthful days of love.
I bounce on bubbles of a buoyant laugh,
Expelled from throat that swore his perfection.
Denouncing prophets of a coming wrath,
I dance upon clouds of this connection.
Now I return, and laugh in bitter mirth.
It fits; two types of innocence should die.
Three years pregnant, my sensible rebirth,
For death does dwell in letters of a lie.
These swells of fog recede, I am alive;
A better woman, left, to live and thrive.