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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2150749
Rated: E · Poetry · Emotional · #2150749
Have you ever looked at yourself, in the mirror, and been saddened by what you see?
The reflection in my mirror, that watches my every move,
Seems to judge me constantly and ignores the subtleties of tact.
It points out every flaw upon my body and my face
And reduces me to facing up to the sharpest fact.

I am looking old now; older than my years suggest.
The last few months have felt like many years.
I have watched the sorrowful lines appear across my face
And followed the pathway left by my tears.

Laughter lines seem to have been replaced by wrinkles,
And crow's feet have appeared beside my eyes.
No amount of foundation or powder applied here
Will turn this visual truth into much needed lies.

How have the years sneaked up on me like this?
Is this all down to the turmoil within my heart?
My happiness and passion, so cruelly ripped from under me,
Have left my youthful demeanour to be torn apart.

My skin looks pale and bereft of any remaining beauty.
Not that I was ever a woman to turn a man's head.
Although it wasn't my face but my womanly charms
That enabled me to draw them into my bed.

Now the opposite side of my bed is quite empty and cold,
A space that I do not foresee being filled just yet.
I lay awake, staring at the walls of my room,
Wondering how much lonelier I can get.

He never seemed to look at me in a usual way.
He seemed to see inside, as if through clear glass.
He saw the inner core, the soul that made me who I really am,
And, in his embrace, I felt that all the world's time could pass.

Those arms are gone now, his smile has faded into black.
The resounding sweetness of his voice has left this place.
And all I have left now is the remembrance of his sensual touch
And the memory of his hands, softly stroking my face.

This reflection that I look upon now,
Taunts me with the truth of my unstoppable failing.
Never to turn back the clock and feel like a young girl again,
Just a marked difference in my visage, but who's complaining?

For a second there, I was ecstatically happy.
I was given the privilege of having him in my life.
Now that door has closed, and his journey continues without me
Just a man, his son and his wife.

I did not understand how heavy the heart could feel
When it was ripped from the chest by the one I trust.
And the lines on this face, that write the story of my despair,
May, one day, show that life is actually unfair and unjust.

I will love him until the final stars have dwindled into eternity.
Until the icy hand of death steers me from this mortal coil.
He will live on, oblivious to the hold he has on my soul,
My tormentor and saviour, whose plot I cannot foil.

I wasn't what he searched for, I doubt any woman ever will be.
His wife holds the key to his satisfaction and contentment.
So, without regard for his failure to maintain his desired honesty,
My days are spent in longing and passionate resentment.

I could go to him now, and plead for my heart
Knowing that the answer I seek will never be heard by my ears.
A final kiss from his soft, delicate lips would be sufficient
To allay the deepest and most troubled of my fears.

Yet, I remain in this place, where his scent still lingers
Torturing my soul; his spectre still haunting my every waking hour.
And my dreams punctured heavily with desire for his closeness,
The price I must pay is to give him, once more, all my power.

So I plod through life, smiling vacantly at those around me,
Trying hard not to spend too long gazing upon my reflection.
Until the day comes when I no longer think of him,
And I am released from this premonition of imperfection.

Copyright © Victoria Preston, 2009
All Rights Reserved
© Copyright 2018 Victoria Preston (ultravixen at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2150749