Time's Relentless Hands
Time's relentless hands cast their shadows
On a middle-aged woman in a lonely corner of her room
She drapes her shawl around her shoulders,
And there she sits covered in sheets of memories
wherein she is held captive by the betrayal
of a lover's deceit.
Time’s relentless hands murdered her dreams
Her heart once whole, now shattered- incomplete.
A lover's promises, like whispers in the wind,
Now ashes to ashes and dust to dust,
dissipating with every gust.
Abandoned, she stands, a slanting, silent cry,
As her dreams unravel and hopes slowly die.
Her children once stars in her twilight sky,
Time’s relentless hands made them
Now gaze with greed in each calculating eye.
Inheritance is their focus, devoid of love's embrace,
Leaving her silent and morose in heart’s wasteland.
She wonders aloud to the universe above,
Why must her suffering prolong in time’s relentless glove?
In echoes of silence, the answers blurred,
Yet, in her brokenness, she seeks the unheard.
In time’s relentless hands, her face is worn and gaunt,
Lines etched with tales of love's paradigm.
A weary soul, searching for solace's shore,
In the wreckage of dreams, she craves for something more.
Why does pain persist, a cruel demand?
In the quiet of night, she pleads for release,
A burdened heart seeking moments of peace.
But midst the ruins of time’s relentless hands,
resilience sparks and a phoenix rises from the desolate dark.
In the mosaic of scars, she finds her grace,
Each fracture is a story etched on her face.
The universe may be silent, yet she persists,
A survivor transcending the darkest twists.
Out of the ashes, a phoenix soars,
And healing whispers, "You're worth so much more."
In time’s relentless hands,
Amid the pain, she'll find her song,
For the middle-aged woman is resilient and strong.
Copyright ©
Marguerite C. Anderson
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