The poetess

Not to show the sadness in her eyes
and the sudden tremor caused by pain
she moves slowly through her elegies
with her feature's tenuous bouquet,
wildly tied and almost loosely held.

Half forlorn and somehow lingering
for a while: a tiny tired smile
droops and drops like petals from a rose.

Almost carelessly, indifferently
she exudes a weariness, her hands
do still know of beauty yet they guess
they would reach forever, never land.

She recites her poetry, in which
fate is wavering, contrived, suspect.
Then she adds to it her own soul's meaning
makes it sound like something fabulous
as a scream within her inner voice.

And she lets with high uplifted chin
all those words drift down again, fall off,
as no word does justice to her life,
for she treasures this, her sole belonging
that she still must hold and carry high
far above her fame and even fall.