Those Montagues, biting their thumbs at us
Who struggle to keep civil in the streets
Blood-letting; a scratch is deadly.
She spoke to the moon her true feelings
Spoken aloud to audience unknown.
Woos a suitor, sings a matching medley
Oh, those Montagues...
If but two days hence, the love-struck ones delayed
Paris would be her fame and county.
And the dilemma of the phial would still be held
By the dubious old friar.
To cure an ill-conceived plan
In a time when decisions were not hers to make.
Deciding more, lays the unsheathed blade
Upon the nightstand
The cold of death, meant only momentary
Blew the chillness to the bone
She cursed life, stiffened as in the tomb
Oh, only child to cause such selfish misery
Of those who dote and preen their only heir
Would have been better, left with a barren womb.
Love scatters it's ashes; in bitter shame.
Only the unworthy and guilty remain.
What began a first-sight love and lust
Now empty and hollow, rain-washed dust.
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