Her Beauty

The last few days I have felt that words are stuck inside of me. I can not empty a racing mind onto paper, because nothing comes out right or nothing comes out at all. It is as if I have lost the ability to know what I am thinking/feeling. Here goes a change of subject and attempt number 1,000.

Her beauty was that of ink stained roses
Grace of a dove
With a broken wing
Temperament of an angry goddess
And hope as a fading dream

A smile awakened with the pain of a thousand broken hearts
Haunting her one at a time
But when she found the courage
To muster up a turn of her lips
It was the beauty of a child
All grown up
And still so young
So cold

She walked
Casting snow from her scarf and coat
And spoke
In the fear of growing old
Alone

Jaded and jinxed
She found pleasure in many obscure things
Away from the people who licked their lips
As they stared and her swaying hips

And then the poor unsuspecting boys who knew not of their own desire
She steered clear
To keep them out of her lair

And she knew not of her beauty
Not of the pearls that were buried
Under her walls that she had been building
Quickly

Not of the lies
That had been melted down
Into the fibers of her being
Blending so perfectly
That she could not see them
They looked the same as her skin
Pale and painfully lovely

She wonders if it was worth it
But only in moments
Where she hides in secret
Keeping all of her thoughts
From the light

She wonders if the beauty is gone forever
If it only awakens with the snow
And flowed away
As the sun flowed over a crippled soul

She prays for her beauty
To return
Without the pain

She longs to feel
Her own beauty
And then turn around

To see it reflect
From the glass window

Of restored dreams