Hail of Gold

Her hair, a mess of golden weave,

It trailed behind her wake.

Her footsteps battled its reprieve,

At each stride she'd forsake.


A heart empty of hesitation,

Beat until its valves were raw,

Each breath, a need for tournication,

She sought her love through soul and maw.


Alas, she found him; tangled so.

A knife resting in his breast.

He'd killed himself of love and woe,

For the pity; the unrest.


Again, her feet took perturbed flight,

To bring her to the banks.

She sang her sorrow to the night,

To the solemn forest flanks.


Her hope a tattered span of wing,

She fought the coming cold.

She plunged, letting the silence ring;

With an endless hail of gold.