The Wait

No, it’s not her I could tell by the hair Nothing could come close that gossamer delight As if woven by Aphrodite her self Then she burned in jealousy of her own creation Sigh! That’s not her either Mine has skin white like milk Flawless and free from blemish Smooth like the marble walls of a scared temple Like religion, she could never be wrong My eyes keep searching for bliss No once again That isn’t her gait Her feline grace pushes the crowd apart The ground savors her every step I yearn to the heavens for her presence I wait still, for first sight With every passing minute My hope bleeds with time My recollections of her wear my patience thin In the silence of this maddening crowd I could hear my heart crack Like a mirror that reveals ugly truths Still no sight of her She is not mortal Not like the others here Her redolence would fill the atmosphere if she were close The sun would dim; her smile would outshine all celestial creations So no, That’s not her She’s nowhere to be found Crestfallen with disappointment I retreat for today Only to return again with fresh eyes in the morrow Or the next day, or the one after Waiting for her to unfold like a miracle before the faithless I would revel in her presence For the few moments she would walk by Then disappear She not knowing Who I ever was…