A sweet  smile greets all who meet her,
With no hint of the pain concealed;
But her poems paint a self-portrait,
Where the truth is boldly revealed

Each word that her pen releases
Is a fateful stroke of the brush:
Sunlit paths that led to dark places,
The brief joys that Fate chose to crush

Sad tales are etched with precision
Upon this warped canvas of Time,
Describing the heartaches that linger,
Urging her to cloak them in rhyme

Are lonely days not distressing
Enough  for this painter of verse?
And yet night deprives her of slumber,
As memories refuse to disperse

But pity offers no solace --  
Fate's cruelty has taken its toll,
Leaving her to walk this Earth alone
With weary heart and blighted soul

Playing Life's dubious Game of Love
She was nothing more than a pawn;
Well does she know her fate has been sealed . . .
Long ago her portrait was drawn