In the West,
with the rest,
should’ve guessed,
but was blessed,
on the edge,
of time’s ledge.
So indeed,
we concede,
that belief,
is a leaf,
on a wind,
in a bend.
What a task,
could the mask,
upon such a face,
of such a race,
contrive to hide,
beauty-suicide?
Perhaps when,
“we were then,”
is a thing,
to seldom sing,
and recompense
becomes suspense.
We must wonder if she’ll ever come back.
Wordsmith of Sol 