by Rebecca Allison

Fourteen years forgotten but for one week. Your dreams, drenched in poison. A ring, severed by the ready blade. A rose by any other name, may not shed a tear. Your pain immortalized by a quill. Sonnets recited over your silent tomb. Applause reverberating about your coffin. Does the nightingale’s call still echo as the curtain closes?

February 15, 2016 Blueprint Magazine No Comments

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