UNTITLED POEM
From The Enigma - Sept. 2011
National Puzzlers' League Magazine
WRYLDE  (adapted)

Tread lightly, she is near,
Speak gently, she can hear.
All her bright, golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.

She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone
Lie on her breast.

She cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life's buried here,
Heap earth upon it.