Miss Charlotte

A poem about the film "Hush... Hush, Sweet Charlotte," starring Bette Davis and my idol, Olivia de Havilland.

Young Miss Charlotte Hollis was forsaken by her lover.
Most say 'twas she who killed him and her daddy was the cover,
for no one could deny the bloodstains found upon her dress.
Still, Charlotte swore her innocence- to crime she'd not confess.
But given what they knew, the town saw only one solution:
Charlotte was the culprit in her lover's execution.
And so, from that day forward townsfolk whispered and they talked,
laying down a quilt of eggshells on the ground where Charlotte walked.
And all she had to fill the gaping void within her heart
was a music box John gave her when their love was at its start.
It's sweet piano rhythm lulls her to a land of dreams
where hope hangs pungent in the air, and nothing's what it seems.
'Tis here that she can dance with him and feel his love's embrace;
and it's here that she speak with him, and touch his gentle face.
But morning's light shall bring her to the truth and day begins.
Once again upon a cross, repenting for another's sins.
But is it true atonement when there's nothing to atone for?
Should they throw these stones when there is nothing to throw stones for?
But how could she defend herself when she knew not the truth?
These lies consumed her innocence and stole away her youth.
Now in her crippled twilight years, she needs another's care.
For this she calls upon a long-lost kindred spirit fair.
How sweet her cousin Miriam had always seemed to be.
Yet one eve Miss Charlotte found out something unbeknownst to she.
Dear Miriam was not the sweet and lovely saint at all,
for many moons agi her kind demeanor took a fall.
Charlotte knew her secret now- she'd blackmailed Mrs. Mayhew.
She let them blame young Charlotte and great riches were her thank you.
Tell the truth or walk away from this was Charlotte's twisted plight.
Alas, she knew what she must do, and that it must be done this night.
She's spent er life in shadows, but tonight she'll grow new wings.
What a tangled web we weave; what solace retribution brings.