As darkness enters, she seeks every beam of light,
And chases dreams - and stars, of rays sublime.
Which shine thru silken folds - the robe of night,
Draped like a veil, to surround her sacred shrine.
When day dawns, she breathes-in a meadow's sweet,
Tempted, she lingers within her house of grays 'n clay,
But o'r the threshold slumber passes, the Sun to meet.
To throw-open shutters, arisen - letting-in the day.
The darkest mornings - oft weighted by grief or cares,
Await - many a dulled desire, a wish, a foolish whim.
Some bend o’er her shoulders, she reveals those wares,
Upon an unwashed table - or window-sill, just as dim.
She looks back at time, through fixated eyes...
Which ne'r gazed upon as many moonlit flowers.
Amid forgotten deeds or long-silent, sullen cries...
Counting-out a tin-silver tale - of the waning hours.
Above her shrine of life, no curtain fell,
For a good man may enter, the unlocked gate.
Tho' only one may find refuge inside those walls,
A tenuous prison - of lost loves, or new-found hate.
Twilight returns and subdues her lonesome abode,
Again, she barred the door, latched shutters fast,
She scurried down her shadowy, forlorn road,
To sleep - another celestial dream, alone - at last!
Copyright ©2013 - Robert C. Kuhmann - All Rights Reserved.