My (un)fair lady.

Where can I move where you are not near?
I skip through the fair, hands groping air
but alas, this throat will not swallow riches,
sweet tongues and harps of marigolds.

I am as unclean as the young blood of sparrows,
dirtying themselves in songs that are far too
hopeful for wanderers; shave my head, this
heart has already been bald for millenniums.

I am a widow, though I never loved...
I am a harlot, though I never touched a man...
I am a deceiver, because I bowed to shadows
then used them to wish my unclean spirit

away.

-
Written 12/02/14 @ 5:38 while listening to a cover of one of my favorite folk songs, "She Moved Through the Fair".