Her Heart for Tragedy
By Thomas P. Walton
Her heart races.
Her mind is carried aloft.
She grips his hand for ballast,
He trembles with a thought.
With her heart racing,
Mind flying,
How could she know if he were lying.
Showered with gifts.
Cursed by vanity.
Oh my little Tragedy,
It so often ends in such calamity.
*Included in Dark Prose of Modern Myth
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