The Spectator

She wore them like the best of costumes – the painted nails and blushered cheeks.
And those that came, and saw,
Imagined her strength, and commended her determination.
Yet through love, and no fault of their own, their mistake compounded her solitude.
How could an hour with brush and pallet,
Illustrate the truth of the heart behind that glistening smile?

And I – whose rainbow wishes and flowing cup,
And tool-box of sibling fixes
– I am all out of happy endings.
And my wand is as useless as the frustration that yearns to put things right.

Will the curtain not fall?
Will the act not conclude; allow its reluctant lead to take her final bow?

… And am I thinking only of myself, when I resolve
That this is one scene I never wish to see her perform again…

2 thoughts on “The Spectator

Comments are closed.