Alone, forsaken, torn, my heart
pierced with the dart
that he tossed there.
I’m round, weary, babe not yet born,
I’ll risk their scorn.
I’ll raise you well,
though time will tell
They say I’m loose, and call me whore,
but there was more,
my little Dove–
I thought it love.
This is in response to Jane Dougherty’s Poetry Challenge . This week, a Minute Poem: 12 lines broken into 3 stanzas. Each stanza begins with a first line of 8 syllables, the next three lines are 4 syllables each. Rhyme scheme: aabb/ccdd/eeff
The prompt was the picture above. I don’t really think it has this feeling of despair, but I thought it had such a Victorian feel, so the woman became one of the seduced and abandoned young women of the time, pondering her fate.