Afterimage

Who was I to appear so late to say
That I loved the woman, the image
Of her, a face in a window on a train,
Who'd been warned throughout her life
That she should never be? Oh, but
I saw and had to love the sly and
Sometimes bitter wit, the mind,
Set free away from home, which
Rose up, like a butterfly, to lines
She practiced for a play. Now, she
Is gone and tethered to the life
Which was prepared for her. The window's
Face has passed from sight, and my
Love weakens, or it did until last night,
When, suddenly, the butterfly appeared
Again and came to rest beside me
In a dream.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 16 times
Written on 2012-04-03 at 22:48

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