The Lady Catelyn

It’s been far too long since I’ve written or posted anything. Finally, after three in the morning on what is still Monday night for me, inspiration for a poem struck as I finished a particularly bloody and significant chapter of George R. R. Martin’s A Storm of Swords. This is the first draft; changes may come. But I must warn you, if you have any intention of reading the book series or watching HBO’s Game of Thrones, do not read this enormous spoiler of a poem. You will certainly regret it and probably hate me for your mistake. I guess you could say this is my interpretation of one of the novel’s particular events.

The Lady Catelyn

The grief
Pierced her heart like
The dagger
Carved her hands, and
The tears
Drenched her face while
The ache
Engulfed her soul with

Memories of her sweet young boys
That were no longer,
Thoughts of her darling poor daughters
Who were lost to her,
Longing for her beloved
Who was naught but bones and dust,
Vision of her remaining son
Who lay punctured and leaking rust.

Each hurt was a wicked claw reaching and clutching,
Ripping her love asunder as
Fate leered at her mockingly, refusing
To grant even a single wolf permission to howl at the autumn moon,
Each fiber of the pack shredded and cast down
To drown in the flooded rivers
Of blood surging from her throat, choking off her screams
And laughter.

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