A Passing Stranger
A poem
A poem
The mirror reveals a lost eternal soul,
lost in the shadows of snow, frozen like ice.
Ethereal connections are how we poets play.
We speak of pictures in words raining emotions,
treasured gems, captured in thoughts of the shifting pages.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
and the beholder is me
She’s had enough of clever lines,
compelling words lost, in a silent world.
I stand transformed
by those few words she engendered,
the art of love painted by departed affections.
As the sun now sets on my regrets,
the words remain to bind us.
Joy known is never lost for it is temporary pain
floating through a corridor between two different worlds,
slowly, toward a bright white light of peace.
Behind the golden stones she built around her heart,
she lowers the cloak to reveal the beauty.
With a closing teardrop, one last thought.
A stranger lifted me up today.