And Then Beauty Got Old…

Like candle wax, moon beams, drip molten down her eyes,
Collect in pools around the corners and reflect anguish.
Then quietly, on padded heels, memory slips away
Into unknown, dusty corridors, far from the light of day;

I escape into an old book, a new chapter, another page
Of crumbling parchment: compelled by age to languish.
Then silently, her matted form, creeps into my soul,
So beautiful then, so quiet now, and very gentle I am told.

No passion left, no anger broiled, no need for none of you.
There were many things to say then but now only just a few…
Aren’t you glad that it wasn’t me? That I never laid a hand on you?
On Time’s toes you trod and trod, thus it was time that you met God.

Someone had to replace your stony heart with something more;
Someone had just got to burn your palace to the floor.