Jane:
She held the world in ink-stained hands,
But the world slipped between her fingers like sand,
She wrote in the pursuit of promised lands,
But her Pride and Prejudice was belittled by Aristocrat demands.
Who published a profit from her ink stained hands,
And leaving her without a leg to stand upon,
As she laid penniless in Bath’s flooded lawns,
But her spirit still sings, like the redbreast swallow in the spring,
And her kindness to passersby is woven upon tapestries,
Undivided like Holy Trinity.
Her words still ring and echo, like cathedral bells filling empty vessels,
Now her bones are laid to rest, under plaque and cement,
Leaving her loved ones to lament over her bones,
But they hope in her eternal home and her legacy that grows.