Arbor emptied occluded by autumn early come,
Th’ stone giant’s rooted like a loner in candle spark,
Door’s wheezing for mother nay listened to her wench,
Th’ bench waiting for th’ nurse called long agone for lunch.
I shuffle on my coat to enter damehood tarnish,
Holding pleasant picture with-mortification-garnished,
Blind with delineation betwixt scrambling and growing up.
Now I watch marriage sweeping my cage out.
If a man stumbles, ’tis string of way, a woman does - faith.
I’m leaving my Wuthering Heights forthwith.
’Tis thy affection on tip of a golden string,
With salt box of my minds chattering in beseech,
Thou art canvas for a willow I never leaned on,
Plain ov’r which’s to get dusty lips I never briefly touched.
‘Tis thy presence in the garden we used to chase ‘round,
With plaque plagued of need for a wanion-of leech,
Thou art harasser conveyin’ con-free childhood,
Struggle which’s to cut th’ willow I anon leaned on,
Escape to which’s to see sweven of hands were never mine,
‘Tis how leftst renegatin’ our Wuthering Heights.
Without-thou-vacancy’s thro my essence ivying,
’Tis ingrowin’ in th’ name of thy lonesome trails.
I’ve ghosted yon in hot mess of love they explode,
From father’s strict hands to th’ society’s backwards.
I’m excruciated in smearing blurs of th’ “I do” words,
Unworlded, wear and tear by thy damning schemes.
If non-preassigned love astonish, tell,
What insensate passion sustain?
Hunt it is like scream adown an of-echoes-devoid witchy hill,
Our Wuthering Heights is like an enemy daggered in vain.
