The Story of Lady Grey
As Lady Grey looked out into the rain,
her own rain streaked her cheek.
Her perfect, peachy innocent face
was a mask to the world from the terror she hid.
Mr Grey said that she was to blame
for the unforgivable things he did.
I don’t see how after all these years
Lady Grey has never confessed
to the secrets she keeps, loathes and fears.
Silence she thinks is for the best.
But Mr Grey thinks it’s big to laugh to his friends
about the way he treats and beats his Lady.
The pain she endures, the blows he delivers,
the way she shudders when he draws near.
Lady Grey begs him and pleads him for her hurting to end
but remains to live her life in fear.
The smell of liquor on his breath
and the twisted way he snarled his lips filled Lady Grey with repulsion and hate.
At home he was a demon, cussing and shouting,
his whiskey sloshing in his glass like molten amber as he raised his arms
to Lady Grey who prayed for death
and regretted how she’d fallen for his young, boyish charms.
After a while it wasn’t safe for Lady Grey to leave.
She remained in her room, bathing her wounds and occasionally played her piano.
One day when Mr Grey was out working at the bank
his wife sat writing to her sister Kitty and poured out her hearts woeful troubles.
She gave it to the butler, who posted it straight away then she told him not to bother her for the remainder of the day.
She fetched her husband’s whiskey and a bottle of sleeping pills,
washed down twenty tablets, retching at the taste but forcing them down nonetheless.
Once she felt dizzy, she lay between her silky sheets and closed her shell pink eyelids.
She thought of running though fields lilac and lavender, fingers outstretched, finally free.
Lady Grey took one last breath and smiled, finally laying herself to rest.
No comments:
Post a Comment