In the Amethyst Mist
somehow lost in yesterday’s mist,
draped in jewels of deep amethyst,
she strolls in the gloaming of days gone by,
and gowned in the silks of a pale violet sky,
she caresses the memories of her being kissed,
and her voice but a whisper of a soft-spoken sigh.
the time that once was is the time that must be,
as she waits for her guests for her afternoon tea,
she will wait and wait by her porcelain clock,
and listen and listen for someone to knock,
and the hours will pass and no one shall she see,
yet she will pour herself tea and to herself she will talk.
the light in her life has gained a patina of old,
the dust on her dreams has become powdery gold,
the lace on her charm has become wrinkled and worn,
as the diary pages have become tattered and torn,
and the stories therein are read and re-told,
of loves once conceived that never were born.
so she will tend to her violets and pour jasmine tea,
in the fragrance of lilacs, in the shade of her tree,
and pray to herself, “Lord, why must this be?”
and she will pray to herself, “Lord, why must this be?”
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