In the Valley of Decision, on the terrace, where choices converge,
in a basket, rots fruit from the tree of knowledge and strife,
that grows near the home of happiness, on society’s verge,
as she sailed away to navigate the ocean’s reefs–full of life.

In the custom of the country, in this village, manners are cold,
while in the depths of the ocean, echoes of battles and might,
A summer-long tale of warmth, her story someone stoled.
The age of innocence–naivety in a world sarcastically polite.

A spinster’s existence they claim when she, solitary and wise,
with a daughter at the front, fighting in ink, this war’s facade,
glimpses at the moon and sees daunting romantic skies,
and the old maid’s tale is printed when choices are made.

A mother’s recompense is love’s enduring trance-like dance,
as the children’s laughter falls like a waterfall on rocks when at play.
and twilight sleep is a happenstance, but she’s not taken by chance.
War is raging, a river of punctuation, bracketed, an inkturesque display.

As the gods arrive and sit in theater seats, society tells tales of the crime.
Through each chapter, she wrote the truth, and what a literary spree,
of the buccaneers’ adventure, but she never bought that narrative line.
Oh the stories untold, wrong time, wrong text, wrong sex, except when given free…

In the adulteration of words, will her legacy ever gleam?
Each title, a portal to something old made into something new,
Whispers of characters, stained black, a dream within a dream?
To ashes all, if only she wrote for intent in fortunes to pursue.