Sadness waits for us, in corners, in gravity,
in the spaces behind our ears.
Too often we feel that it is all a ruse;
and so we flee to old, familiar melodies,
to sweet, mellifluous memories
of ones we loved who are now torn away from us.
Borne away before a tempest of
cold, mottled skin, pressed handkerchiefs,
and sudden responsibility, we cannot know
where their kind go.
The dreamer, writing her own words
over those of history's, society's, reality's.
Her soul, bright and wispy and young and strange.
She will turn the sword upon herself,
swept away to a foreign court, for one she loves.
While meanwhile, a lady perfidously dons a new and envied skin.
Set in the Victorian era.
Credit to images here and here.