Her Scented Bed and Her Bloodshed Battlefield
What pray tell did her scented bed look like?
It was that of a bloodshed battlefied with a fire
burning and waiting for the stained aftermath
from a war zone to totally painful.
The bed held dreams of being rescued by someone
who held the words of peace and compassion
upon his gentle hands.
Her bed coveted a burning candle that stayed lit.
And what of scented beds? Were they laden with roses
or covered with moss?
How did one begin to unearth a mass so dense.
She was the raw rose nailed down upon her scented bed
from which she couldn't escape from.
Hers was a burning bed, ready to erupt and burn
from fierceness of flames.
Bittersweet desires and memories folded upon
this bed covered in a quilt with calico hearts.
Upon this bed, she carved dreams and memories.
From the glorious heavens she was emerced with
her sunflower pencil in hand from her icon
Vincent Van Gogh.
Drawing her dreams, she had set aside
her Picasso Blue pen, but always
felt that both went hand in hand.
One was alive in the palms of her hand while
the other was sifting away into the depths of night.
Dreams cascaded upon her scented bed and
she thought of things to come.
Where would her life unfold to? She was simply yet to know.
She was neither here nor there, yet the heaviness
of covers kept her trapped, captive
to a invisible metal that held her firm.
What color was her bed?
Love was like a thorn which
seemed to tack itself with a nail.
Between her jammed tight heart
there was a cloak of darkness and pain
which was ready to engulf her essence of soul.
Jennifer Jo Fay
Copyrighted 2007-2008
There was more like three type written pages to this and then another version of The Scented Bed.
But this seems good for now. I'm not sure if I'm willing to share the other parts of it, but I will keep it in case some day when I am dead it gets published for people to read.
I guess I will post the other version of this later.
I remember reading this at a local Art League show we had at Lang Farm Barn. There wasn't many people there and I was reading the longer version to one of the other women. As I was finishing, she had told me that she was a psychiatrist and she offered me some advice at the time. They knew I was being battered. And one of the other artists gave me the number to the Battered Women for which I called quite frequently to get the help that I needed.
