A Meadowlark's Mourning
Gwen Treharne is young woman fond of reading, writing and watching the BBC. When she moves to a shabby house near the sea, the last thing she expected to find was a heart-rendering note that set her plain world on fire.
Constructive criticism, any comments whatsoever and ratings are greatly appreciated, as it's for the Quibblo contest. Thank you for bothering in advance!
The sweeping wind chases across the planes of her
Cavernous eyes drink me in
Glowing orbs for which time and time again I would
Willingly commit the ugliest sin
In the dark our hearts swell into one
And we sing like sorrowful swallows
About TRUTH and EQUALITY and
All that is long gone
â€œAny day now,â€ velvet lispers against my hungry tongue
But the tale is too long
And soon it comes to a tragic end
â€œAway!â€ INTOLERANCE cries, and away I am sent.
TRUE LOVE plummets to the pit, and tear nor plea
Can chase away the lies strewn about
The shattered shell that is left of me
And so with stargazing eyes I breathe my last
With a lethal blade sunk into the
Bittersweet, night-ridden memories of the past
Her name I whisper, placing a trembling palm upon my beaten chest
Is the sound with which
I shall surrender my soul to the final rest.
Gwenâ€™s fingers touched the yellowed paper carefully. The words had captivated her, and now she was falling in a deep pit of dark despair. Silvery webs held her in place there, where heard above everything else was the anguished cry of lovers lost.
Affection dripped from the frayed corners, shown clearly in the careful curls of the Câ€™s and round Oâ€™s. Its tender fingers played the chords of Gwenâ€™s hammering heart, revealing the pain and loneliness that could be found aplenty in the writerâ€™s words and hastily blacked out lines. Hidden in each phrase was a night the couple had shared; innuendo of the sweet secrets theyâ€™d stuffed inside deep vases of dread.
The last paragraph was perhaps the most heart-wrenching. It spoke of death and bygone times, of loveâ€™s poisonous bite. It declared the ending of not only a hidden relationship, but also the anonymous authorâ€™s existence. It was a suicide note as much as a proclamation to the world.
Exhaling slowly, Gwen clutched the letter to her chest and squeezed her eyes shut. In her mindâ€™s eye, she could see the two people laughing and caressing each other. Warmth and mischievousness were prominent in their vast eyes; both pairs were clouded with the illusion that this romance could last forever, that nothing could touch the ambrosia that was their mutual adoration.
Although she often read novels detailing love, this little message had grasped Gwenâ€™s interest at once. It seemed too strong to be imaginary, too poignant to be a drabble someone had left in a damp corner of the basement. Whoever had written it had a clear concept of forbidden loveâ€™s great impact, and had not wished for others to see their suffering until it was too late.
By the time she opened her eyes, Gwenâ€™s sight was already blurred by thick tears â€“ then she was weeping over lost love as oceans of scenarios, each more heartbreaking than the previous, appeared before her. Sounds of hurried goodbyes, falsehoods and agonised screams took control over her mind, almost jeeringly reminding her of every cruelty committed.
Before long, however, the tide turned and the grieving Gwen ached to know what had driven the writer to scribble down his confessions last-minute, why he had slipped the piece of paper under a broken chair. Accompanying the curiosity was a terrible rage that soared through her, demanding answers: Who had dared to drive a wedge between two people, and what justified separating a relationship?
Her breath cut through the thin air, sharp as a razor, and Gwen finally realised she had been sitting in the grimy basement for hours. Two lines into the poem, sheâ€™d forgotten about the abundance of daddy long legs and dirt that littered the floor. Only now did the chill of the room return to her, and return with full force it did. The cold was like that of a great wave breaking on top of her; violent, powerful and uncaring.
She stood up and made for the gray stairs, still holding the note firmly. The light that appeared before her as she opened the door was nearly blinding, and Gwen thanked the sunâ€™s kissing rays fervently for their warmth â€“ warmth and brightness that Anonymous had, very possibly, not seen in years.
Without realising it, Gwen was already weaving herself an expensive promise: She would find whoever had written this ode to life, and share the bitter questions that the poem raised.