A kind of ridiculous poem I wrote for Christmas for a friend who, along with the rest of her family, had been terribly betrayed by her father.
Lady Lauren
By C. Randall Nicholson
On yonder peak sits Lady Lauren, lost in thought as she looks out over the valley, absentmindedly fingering one of the many bracelets that adorn the canvas of her long, slender arm. No one follows her here. It is her sacred space.
Her face shares much in common with the sun that it looks up at; it is also round, full of light, and from the back it streams golden tresses like sunbeams, mingled with a darker tone as if to show that even while her thoughts are on high, she remains down to earth. This is the face for which men and dragons laid down their weapons and signed a truce, unable to fight for one moment longer as she looked on them with pleading eyes.
One can scarce find a single horse, dog, or villager who has not been a beneficiary of the fair Lady's kindness, which she dispenses like rice at a wedding. They speak in glowing terms of the purity of her heart.
Especially grateful are society's downtrodden, the outcast. The hunchback who now feels handsome. The village idiot who now feels wise. The leper who now feels whole. All soothed by the healing balm of her loving words and caresses.
And yet...
Few can know what else lies within that heart, a foreign and unwelcome intrusion that refuses to leave. As she admires the view, she is nearly suffocated by a weight inside of her that even Atlas would struggle to support. Few see it, and none can take it away. No knight in shining armor can slay this demon.
One could, after being taken into her confidence, offer to do the next best thing, and slay the source from whence it sprang. But she would only smile wistfully and decline. No, she isn't into revenge, and it wouldn't solve anything, not really.
Who could have done such a thing to such a pure soul?
Someone far beyond feeling, but not beyond the reach of her love.
Who will heal the healer? No knight in shining armor, nor other mortal man, try though they might.
But let her have her sacred space, and leave her in peace with her thoughts. She communes with her real Father.
Main Page: Poems and Songs by C. Randall Nicholson
Her face shares much in common with the sun that it looks up at; it is also round, full of light, and from the back it streams golden tresses like sunbeams, mingled with a darker tone as if to show that even while her thoughts are on high, she remains down to earth. This is the face for which men and dragons laid down their weapons and signed a truce, unable to fight for one moment longer as she looked on them with pleading eyes.
One can scarce find a single horse, dog, or villager who has not been a beneficiary of the fair Lady's kindness, which she dispenses like rice at a wedding. They speak in glowing terms of the purity of her heart.
Especially grateful are society's downtrodden, the outcast. The hunchback who now feels handsome. The village idiot who now feels wise. The leper who now feels whole. All soothed by the healing balm of her loving words and caresses.
And yet...
Few can know what else lies within that heart, a foreign and unwelcome intrusion that refuses to leave. As she admires the view, she is nearly suffocated by a weight inside of her that even Atlas would struggle to support. Few see it, and none can take it away. No knight in shining armor can slay this demon.
One could, after being taken into her confidence, offer to do the next best thing, and slay the source from whence it sprang. But she would only smile wistfully and decline. No, she isn't into revenge, and it wouldn't solve anything, not really.
Who could have done such a thing to such a pure soul?
Someone far beyond feeling, but not beyond the reach of her love.
Who will heal the healer? No knight in shining armor, nor other mortal man, try though they might.
But let her have her sacred space, and leave her in peace with her thoughts. She communes with her real Father.
Main Page: Poems and Songs by C. Randall Nicholson
