Vera's quietude was
her highest weapon.
At least she thought
she was living a life.
A stubborn, meak slave
of her suppressed needs.
Sacrificing her dignity,
and denying ignorance;
she drank up wrathed
amaranthine liquid in one
long sip from the exquisite
crystal chalice. Dreaming
about her gentle femininity
to flourish again. For sure
there will rise one special
bright morning for her. She
walked through the effervescent
garden surrounding their vaccation
villa. Love's true reciprocity vaguely
reminisced and echoed within this
little woman's romantic soul. She
became a shadow of her self,
hating the marble empty halls, lonely
pages in vintage volumes at night,
lying crowds, smiling as statues
stare; without emotions, numb
and notably beautiful. People.