Mood:
“Not the hours before…
But what comes after.”
Living her life as though
She was throwing a party
The appearances of exquisite perfection
There was never any question of her sincerity.
We believe our own lies when told with a smile.
Her eyes deceive us. They tell us a well told yarn
Of hyacinths and buckets of roses on a cold Monday morning.
The rattling key enters toward a complicated place…Love.
The past walks in early. It disrupts, it unnerves as she tosses
Eggshells in the waste basket, egg white still clinging helplessly
Like her resolve.
When parallels converge, water rises; it floats the past by drowning
The novel, though completed, leaves her bereft of purpose.
Not the hours before but what comes after…It beckons, more.
April 2006
D. Claudia Ash