She has regrets that swim through her veins,
Befriending the essence of life that boils with emotions,
What ifs thunder in between heartbeats,
And sadness wallows within her depth.
**
Her smile hides behind the mask of forgiveness,
Eyebrows twitch at the scent of a lie,
No falsity springs upon her lust as the waltz is performed,
Instead, she tastes the acidity of every dishonest word.
**
She dances under blue skies, star studded nights and pristine sunsets,
Memories soar through her thoughts unbidden and at rest,
Disappointments prickle under her skin; a hefty reminder,
Often reminiscing of the meals she has eaten, seated at the table of pain.
**
Mirrors reflect the past — both the love and the hate,
But she has a hard time looking upon them with depth,
A quick glance shadows the youth that decried every night,
Leaving an aging woman balancing on the axis of the void.
**
Her bones have grown brittle on the census of her sadness,
Yet, she fortifies them with the hope that swims through her dreams,
Those that vanish the ongoing nightmares,
Chasing her demons on tiring feet.
**
When morning arrives she promises adventure and excitement,
Banishes the drama, the grudges and the forget-me-nots,
Today is for the living, those with tongue-in-cheek,
Leaving the dark hours to dwindle in her wake.
**
She carries her strength on shoulders that bow to the load,
Laughing at those that don’t understand the miles she’s walked in her shoes,
She’s known immense love, the bitterness of death,
And the wisdom of broken hearts.
**
She is nearing the finish line, determined to taste the last mile,
Gratitude pushing her from behind as the wind causes the stumbles and falls,
White flag flying, she’ll take it as it comes,
Confident in her ability to land on her feet — every time — until that one day whereby she gracefully falls.
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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Comments (4)
In the line about bones growing brittle, "on the census of her sadness," I wonder if "census" might be intended as "expense" or perhaps a deliberate tally of sorrows? Either way, it adds a unique layer to the emotional inventory.
"Her bones have grown brittle on the census of her sadness, Yet, she fortifies them with the hope that swims through her dreams," Oooo, these lines are so brilliant! Loved your poem!
Sadly old age cannot be avoided, seize the moment and embrace the life we have
Still much living to be done while we are alive.