Sonnet 397

You search your glass for shadowed yesterday
But now, of sadness, nothing can you find;
Who is that woman in the mirror you say,
Of looks so wan, pale colors worn by time?
Lackluster eyes now stare as hope bereft
On that aged rose whose petals, lost and lorn
Once graced the gardens of the fashioned best
As many gilded arms they vain adorned.
Where is that precious fragrance, where 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?
So stands no greater force to humble pride
Than anguished musings of when beauty died.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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