Off in the distance,
A woman sits, cold,
Shivering in the rain,
The only true look on her face being disdain,
Her hair tattered, dishelved,
Her eyes, piercing with unspeakable pain,
Filled with tears of the years of scorn,
Screaming the terror of a heart ailing for love,
But never receiving the adorn.
She speaks but only to herself,
Of the masquerades life has rummaged her way,
Of the days where laughter annihilated her silence,
Of the times the mightiest sauntered in her presence,
When she gleamed with impenetrable grace.
“Fantasies,” she utters but in a whisper,
“I live for the fantasies.”
Muses walk about. Sometimes we wish the dreams to be reality.
