She is you, me, mother, daughter,
wife – woman of prior substance.
Now vacant, chiselled from the pyres of life’s regret.
Illusionary lady, eluding her reality;
for a handful of archaic elapsed years.
Though you, might still find her
hidden, in the circular quietness of her prose.
Blue, faded, long past damaged; once the
comfort blanket to all her family’s warmth.
Yet here she lies; threadbare, passive –
‘as only a woman knows how’.
Inviting not she – feelings of revenge.
Let the unacquainted with their taunting of old maid
words of hateful taste, yet received
with no reaction; stand to be rebuked.
For the lady is Puritan of mind,
long worn her cochineal smeared red rags.
Disrespect now etched on known faces, echoed at a
thousand breakfast tables – laid raw.
The unyielding abundance of love
year after year –
forgotten abandoned to be apparent
in one word
Poppy Dec 2012