woman, 43 years

BUCURESTI

looking for man

I am . . . A woman
With a full heart, hidden
Somewhere in an empty room . . .
With eyes not quite of autumn's gold, and yet
Neither all of summer's green;
I wonder . . . If love is a tale made for children
A granting of sweet dreams in their innocence
A honey-coating to help their throats
Choke down the bitter draught . . .
I hear . . . A voice that whispers warnings, half-formed,
Bodiless as hope, until I swear I cannot draw
Another breath unless this spectre be unmasked
I see . . . A woman, proud, uncompromising,
Diaphanous as air -- less, even, than the tears
That fall in desolation about her weary feet,
Salt poison pooled upon the withered ground . . .
I want . . . The numb, the cold that laughs at pain