Ashlyn Thomas
Poetry Editor
Captive to these tattered red halls is she
Forced to bear their weight on one holy stone
Yet I dare not force her hand from her knee
Lest it might drown her before she has flown
If creatures of such low, fruitless descent
Give leave to revel in her sacred sphere
In wrath do I bathe them, void of repent
Henceforth, her mind is rid of every drear
Her beauty strikes a frenzy in my soul
I am trembling and unapt in her eye
With dread presenting me an utter droll
Save the lingering tarry in my sigh
‘Tis my only right to behold one sight
For I never saw true light until this night