WHY WAS THE WOMAN IN DESPONDENCY—sorrow, sadness, melancholy, twas the woman. And yet she held her head down, maybe it was all that they had tooken.
Her brown greys of hair had suited themselves over her pale ears, white and fragile, her eyes lit up like a candle whenever words had been muttered in them. The words of her mother, the words of her father. And yet, she had still wondered in which, why was she such a mistreated mammal?
Oh yes, her ears, all they would do would scream in them—their voices like cackles.
They were like guns, her husband, whose was a man would had a body of dough; which was ever so unfortunate, his wife was a baker. And his words were simply a pistol.
There sons, three great sons, who’d been raised to be hard working farmers. And to think of them, her body would morphe into a shape of a monster, slim where her skeleton would show. Her skin pulled over her skeleton, bones and only bones, the only meat she had was her heart that had hurt ever so quickly.
Her heart, which you could see yourself. Each vein in it. Though she had a husband, some days she just had wished she was single.
Some sad hours from your dear poet.
