Stew.

Stew.
Current mood: melancholy
Category: Writing and Poetry

"Swallowed by a sea of interpretive indigestion, My mind is a series of events left to question."

The melancholy widow worships the grave he lies in. Day after day, night after night, she strokes his tombstone with her long and jagged fingertip. Her heart melts with the dawn of a new day, hoping she could lay in the casket burried deep beneath her island of despair. As night falls she weeps, dreaming only of his embrace, his patience, his undying heart that died only too soon.

Breathing is a sliver of hope, a lingered absense of all that has happened in her life. She feels nothing now, nothing more than anything. She wants to let go and love again, but her heart is made of black. A black wrought iron heart. You could cook a stew in this heart of hers, leaving nothing but a dirty mess to clean after she was left undeniably alone once again.

stew and loneliness.

the melancholy widow trads her beliefs and her purpose in life for a pair of empty wrought iron cauldrons.

for she is going to make stew.