[i]Pain. It is pain that shatters the mind[/i]

There is mystery in the hedge maze,
In the dull upholstery and frayed edges of this ancient house,
Of the rows of dark oak and greased willows that drive up from the river,
Cusping upon the bridge and the old wooden door.

A fine young woman walks the alleys,
Through the avenues, hands upon her hips,
Bodice holding her all-in; a dress not too fine, more grey than blue
The house whispers, as she whispers, in the aches of her own mind.

A governess, who knows that
To love is to lose and risk pain again
To die and wilt like the cull of sun-bleached roses.

She circles these woods, dark as they are
Recalling how he first fell off his horse
Unaware of the creature held within his cellar,
Tended to and loved, sharing none of his hope
"My own demon," kept trapped, the incineration of his very standing
Morals lost, thoughts decayed, trapped within the walls of his estate.

What truth has he to tell her,
What gifts can he manifest?
While the demon yet lingers
As he holds his new wife to his chest
Rot becomes the sanctity of his mind
Escape impossible. Amnesia brought on by laudanum
Taken like whiskey, stealing the breath

At night he dreams of setting the tapestries alight,
Of digging an early grave for them both
Somewhere deep, earthworms cower
Listening to his mistresses cries
For she found the door to his private sanctum
And saw the truth in his first wife's eyes:
The madness yet lingers, and whether it's his fault is the question

Who is Rochester...? And what if he lies...?