The Moors Are Thick With Your Mist Too

[heslopian]

"Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed." - Emily Dickinson

Again I return to Wuthering Heights,
beating on the white windows
like Catherine does at call of night.

The cellar rich with human filth,
trees expelling blood,
moors protected by the snow;
and those who live nearby still rot.

My teacher once asked if a girl
like Emily, whose life had been
conducted from behind a wall,
crunching cakes in solitude,
could have understood such hate,
the burning violence love becomes
and strives to torment arrogance.

I daresay those who live alone
have more knowledge of this pain
than those surrounded by kindness.