Constance Loved The Wilde, Untamed, poetry by Tanya Ganguly at
Laura Chouette

Constance Loved The Wilde, Untamed

Constance Loved The Wilde, Untamed

written by: Tanya Ganguly



Constance loved the Wilde untamed,
In boughs and tendrils,
She made her home,
And raised immaculate, forms so splendid,
Of deer-lover’s seed before his doom,
Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
And soon her woodland but decayed,
The boughs, they splintered at her heart,
And stole her living grace away,
Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
But Love itself, it never dies,
She stood beneath the barren sky,
And rained upon, her flowing tears,
Gardens of Shame, they gave her weeds,
And yet she coaxed the choking Earth,
But for a drop of Love to feed,
Unto the miseries of her aching soul,
The seeds, they blossomed, and blossomed well,
A solitary reaper,
She saved them from her hell,
And the Wilde, it flourished,
Upon another man’s soil,
In poetic harmony and tender-worded caresses to the soul,
But when hellfire burned and raged,
And pleas and sense were all unheard,
When the flames rose up to the sky,
Obliterating even that infertile rock,
But Constance, nay, she took not flight,
She soothed the carnage and its dooms,
Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
It took her soul, it ate her pride,
And it consoled her through her blackened nights,
The wretched genius, in cruel spite,
Outlived her days by many moons,
And whence the Wilde,
It met its grave,
Post – much sorrow,
Curse and gloom,
Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
And Love, itself, perhaps the blade,
To claim this paradox as the Truth,
Is as good as claiming to be blind,
But Constance loved and withered still,
As the Wilde untamed,
Made its tragic kill.

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