This is a Poem


A whisper, a voice, an old hag murmurs
She weaves her purple tapestry
Prisoner in chains, she sews the rug of kings
Doomed to die when she ends her task

Wisps of smoke and dirty candle wax
Fill the stale, old room
Shivering in a pasty sweat, bent over
It is her life, it is her death


Copyright 2003 by pauly hart