Christina In Red

As she waits, dressed in his favorite red, she waits alone in an old-fashioned world, not a breath of wind dares tossel her head nor a drop of rain though the sea is twirled by unceasing tide in passage of time, stilled for a moment, captured forever with color magic while still in her prime, who remembers her mortal endeavor? No one remembers the age in her eyes, the lines of laughter or gray in her hair; did she hold grudges or pardon the lies, did she hoard the gold or happily share? All that remains is a weathered gravestone, and this old photograph where youth hasn't flown.