Sonnet 397

You search your glass for golden yesterday
But now, of sadness, nothing can you find;
Who is that woman in the mirror you say,
Her looks so wan, bright colors worn by time?
Dusk shadowed eyes now stare as hope bereft
On that aged rose whose petals, lack and lorn
Once graced the gardens of the fashioned best
As many gilded arms they vain adorned.
Where is that precious fragrance, where’s the bloom
That lured the many like drab wings to flame?
Where lies the essence that could light a room,
That tigress presence taunting to be tamed?
There stands no greater force to humble pride
Than anguished musings of when beauty died.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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