Image for the poem Grey Woman

Grey Woman

She sips ten dollar wine,
orange-red, with it's quiet fire,
from a forty dollar goblet.
One never soaped, just rinsed
and sat over the sink.
Too soon again, cold will force her
to come drink.

Her gown is old.
Frail cotton seams have began
their outward spiral.
There's a rip, over a thigh, where
she caught the corner
of the great oak table.
From running circles
around a mad lover-man.
As she was laughing,
eyes wildly flashing brilliance,
knowing the inner workings of a man,
as her mind was madly working.

But that, that was when?


Tonight she sits, leaning towards the mirror
of the ancient night-table.
She brushes her hair, watching her reflection
hand her the stray grey ones, that refuse to follow
the lay of the auburns.
She winces and frowns, pushing down each crisp article
that reads her age, back to her "show the public" face.

Along the frame of the mirror
are photos of lovers, sons, friends.
Tucked into corners, not by favorite, but by chapter.
Not in order, some were just random happenings.
Even two, are black and white;
Old days, when pictures caught time
at a stand-still.
She goes back, sometimes.

Liquid has no mercy, it lays
wrapped around the base of her glass.
These little rings of her loneliness.
Her marriage to the silence
of one-ness.

She runs her finger through that circle,
then rubs it between her fingers.
She runs them through the grey strands
that now, sated with the attention,
lay content with the red.
Now quenched, patted down
with knowledge of existence.

She lifts a minor bottle of perfume
and traces the valley of her breasts.
Wondering, no man kisses there
in so long, is it still as heated
as it once could be.
Could a fire ignite suddenly
from no kindling more than a simple wanting.
God, the power that she reigned
just by being a woman.

Now, such past tenses, Winter takes it dues
upon those that sleep alone.
Cold creeps into the open seams
and cracks the faucets, allows them to drop
tears, for those who are forced to listen.
At three a.m., as Winter rocks the lonely,
lulling them, into an ever-asleep.
Although her eyes are opened, night pours
grey-milk over them, clouding them
with the veils of old memories.
Haunting her, when she'll try to sleep.

She sits, unswayed, places her wet fingertips
fresh with the aroma of 'false hope' perfume,
down her creases, her neck, even her belly
-Where true lovers stopped to say I love you
between the two kisses, of love and sex.

The odor lifting, scents hinting, a gift
of a kiss, this mist, this drunkenness.
Tucked in vapor packages, ready to be unwrapped
if ever a man comes asking for her gifts.
-Of a holiday spent ripping cotton gowns,
and shooting corks at the ceiling.
Then throwing glasses into the corner,
where behind the dresser, sits a fireplace
filled with ash and dust.
All grey, like snow in the city.
While inside, her fading garden
turns to colorless, ever-waning.

Come now,
she finds herself staring at herself.
Grips the hairbrush, rakes it through
the damnation of age.
Nothing to take the mind away from this.

She'll sleep facing the wall, the blankness.
As the gown raises off of her hip,
showing a slightly broad shadow.
As the moon caresses
where a man should've.

She raises her hand to the reflection,
walks her fingers down the slope
of her ivory dune;
White sandstone,
rubbed down to softness.
She closes her eyes, lets this shadow man
cross her vastness, to the oasis.
That she wraps in thin cotton sheets
no matter the coolness.

She lays, watching the wall,
as the grey light
washes across a blue mood.
She lifts her hand, onto the background
and watches her shadow fingers
twirl like intricate dancers.
Especially the middle one, with the silver belt
that catches the spotlight
-That's known for its intensity.

The art of defying lonely done,
she reaches for the string.
Lamplight pulled down, breaking the scene,
ending this last act.
Her eyes bow closed,
as the curtain of dusk lowers
onto the stage.

And all that remains is the haze,
of odors of perfume and smoke.
Where a crowded room
kept her company.

Written by Styxian
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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