Thoughtprints

She sits alone, stoic in the darkness,
the glowing ash of her cigarette poised,
awaiting escape from life burned too long.

Ballads blare with slurred speech from
her sympathetic radio,
its determination drained.

The musty smell of stale perfume and
aging passion's sweat attempt insult to
senses already long-dead,
While toxic tears of love-gone-bad carve their way
down cheeks of stone.

A siren's voice hypnotically calls,
false prophet of peace divine;
deaf to her own spirit's fervent plea,
she steps in with lover's faith,
lost in the depths of heartbreak's abyss.

Copyright © S. Leigh Marin
(originally penned January, 2002)