Escape

A lonely exile self-imposed she masks
With bantering and quips that sharply fly;
The smile upon her lips remains intact
Until a door muffles her soulful cry.
In fantasy of words lie unfulfilled
Hypnotic dreams wherein she quaffs her thirst;
Her drug of choice pervades her bloodstream til
Ophelia’s death she chooses o’er life cursed.
Her children, joyful once, become a shroud
Adorning her in silk and tulips shorn,
And tearfully they weave her auburn crown
With crimson flowers they harvested that morn.
Elusive peace blankets a stormy day;
A phoenix rises up from earthly clay.