A mournful banshee wailing in distress
With nothing but a whisper in her wake
Her troubled lips strain mutely to express
The agony her heart has come to take
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Wistful she wonders why the world, in haste,
Has cruelly a thorn and rose infused
A pungent beauty, threaded with distaste
As The Artist chuckles, eyes amused
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Have faith, oh woeful maiden, realize
The vile and lovely are together wrung
The grief and sorrow dripping in your cries
Makes happiness taste sweeter to your tongue
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If love and passion perished without pain
‘Tis better that your heart and soul lies slain