Christy's Doubt. Chapter 4.

"Morning Dew"

The winding tendril curls,
It seeks a destination.

In these magic whirls,
I see bright fascination.

A dewdrop suspended,
A treasure~ intended?

For watchful eyes to see,
A diamond blinks, in gold, to me,

It winks so strong, in rising sun,
Bright, fragile morning, just begun.

A treasure left, to flare so bright,
Or pass unseen, in morning's light.

*******************


"The Doubt, Expressed."


A little stumble at your station.
You know your situation.

You staggered at the curve,
You knew you had to swerve!

You could not swear alliance,
When you felt so much defiance.

They tried to grasp your mind,
They used the fear to bind.

In the end your sanity prevailed,
Your beliefs survive, unassailed.



The Lisping Leader, his whispers reviled,
You tried to tell them, but they just smiled,

And they said to "Have Faith"
But you knew the truth, his hands were defiled.

He clasped And he grasped,
Anatomy, to which he was not entitled.
The personal invasions, the girls that would squirm,
Who could they tell?
Of the Libertine worm?

Who would believe that the Pillar of Church
Would stoop to defile, commit acts to besmirch?
The Church.


So Churches left all the beliefs of the child.
Shed, "Gentle Jesus, meek and mild"

Never such crap, would again cloud her thoughts.
She instinctively knew, no justice from Courts.

**************************

Chapter 4, is really for Christy.

She buried her head into her pillow, sobbing quietly. She had no wish to disturb anyone else, and she felt her distress and sadness, were hers alone.
Her long auburn hair hung about her face, the wild curly tangles, causing her distress, because it was wet, and it was now, somehow, a reminder of Ross. He loved her hair, & she was determined to get it cut.

She could see his fine features. His neat short nose, his beautiful eyes, so grey, so appealing. He always felt he was too short, he told her. She felt he was just right, taller than she was, and so handsome, and fit. He had nothing to feel inferior about. He had told her he felt it unfair his father, old Angus, was taller and broader than he.

She had assured him that was nonsense, that he was perfect the way he was. She had loved his gentle sensitivity. The way he could sense a mood, and tune into it's wavelength.

She could picture his fine fingers, his delicate hands, as if they were meant to be artist's hands. To sculpt, create, somehow make beautiful paintings or works of art in other media.

She knew about certain parts of his life, but he shut out others. He became very secretive about his mother's death. He flat-out refused to talk about it. She thought that may be because he had no actual knowledge of her death, or the circumstances.

She really did not know. No one was prepared to tell her. They all feigned ignorance, & perhaps it was not feigned. Maybe they had no real knowledge.

She knew his father was a very private man. She could still see his shocked, though still handsome, face, appearing out of the mist, as she lost consciousness.
She could vaguely recall his shocked shouts, telling his son to
"Get the Hell off her!"
"What the hell are you doing? Trying to kill her?"

She could still feel that strangulation, that losing of consciousness.

Thank goodness she had had the sense to try to shout, as he attacked her. It had probably saved her life, as Angus had roused from his drunken stupor to come to her aid.

She could remember how he had shouted, to Ross first, then to her. Telling her to
"Get home" "What the hell are you here for?"

She could still feel the shame burn on her cheeks. Was it her fault??

She shuddered in revulsion, and the tears continued to fall, into the Auburn mass, which she decided had to go.