Old Goddess

No one told her the water was poisoned
against her flesh - that all the virtues of
her ancestors had drifted away in
wisps of song and flaked from her mortal lungs,
rendering her as fragile as chaste words.
No one whispered to her that the sane ones
had forbidden the world to speak of it's
beginnings, but the maiden's thoughts were that
perhaps in the wilderness of madness,
the mind can be reclaimed. So she crowned her
brow and breast in violets, laced her arms with
rue and rosemary's blooms, and wound poppies
as a sash about her waist. She knew the
water - recognized sacred ease in its
calm murmur, and so she sank, upturned palms
offering pansies like alms, splashes of
color flushed against the latticework of her veins.

But Melusina had forsaken her,
and not even the lilies could mourn the
loss of her mind.