Left for granting her every whim
setting tears to skim the frozen pond
as the graceful skaters pirouette
and etch icy memories with their blades.
Left for granting her solace, love’s dim
undecipherable words and arduous struggles -
melting souls into puddles of blue wax
so colorful yet misshapen and useless -
for the wick of his embrace burns no more
Left for chanting her futile prayers in
furtive pleas of gratitude of entwining
moments into memories, the weave is
macramé of an unknown design.
sought by no one for a souvenir even
with a signature from the artist.
Left for panting – her soul’s breathlessness
at the wonder of the curtained eyes, and
knowing, knowing there is a depth of
wanting in him as deep as the mountaintop
and ocean floor.
Right for planting, the seed of hope and
love’s culmination of fertile potion
receiver of life and promise to cherish and
grow and push and birth to nurture for
all time.
Write yet for slanting the skewed perceptions
of promises turned to lies to hopes for the
change - the fleeting moment of realization
that no’s can be yes’s. But know….
A child dies in youth
A woman succumbs in beauty
A soul searches for the purpose and lesson
An idea is dashed before it is spoken
A love letter is lost before received
She is left for wanting. Again.
Copyright © September 2003 Amy L. Allison
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