She had been beautiful once, but her skin

was now dry: starched parchment, heavily-lined

and deeply scarred by her mind’s constant weathering.

A glimpsed aspect caught like torn cobwebs.


Her bloom had drained into deep crevasses,

as she stumbled between relationships.

The birthdays were the same, only the names changed:

dancing in squalls of letters and littered lives.


Within the plastered make-up and set smile,

a distant, hollow drum beat away the silence

of enveloping walls. Yesteryears’ cards propped up,

hung out: semaphores of grounded memories.


Guided positions had too often ended

in rubble: sad wreckages that had clogged up

highways and low ways of conducting journey’s end.

The mascara too often hid the steely look.


She had basked in summer fluttering: heady days

of buff-orange, loitering in shrubs and copse,

which, sadly, led to the pricks of thistles 

and accusations considered heinous.


The moon-cool Venus with the glossed lipstick,

cheap perfume and waft of loneliness,

had passed through her chrysalis of time:

no longer in the glad rags of dust-laden dreams.

ainted Lady