As the pulse points are caressed
by life’s lusty fragrant perfumes,
Treasures entwine the heart
in the twilight of the memory room,
Where memories are imprisoned
by the heart on an intricate chain,
Each link clasping a captive dream
to be evoked to living vividness again.
There’s a misty murky magic
that creates a young girl’s wistful dreams
Full of muted laughs, heart-felt sighs,
and shimmering future schemes,
There’s stardust fallen from youthful eyes
onto a tear-stained crumpled page
That marks the day when a heart was broken,
the day when Love came of age.
There’s a grey subtle fragrance that touched
the pulse points of middle years,
Where road maps were marked, “Detour here”
for weeds of sorrow and furtive fears,
When the bright banners of innocent youth
boasted Love’s red roses and faith’s clean blues
Were torn asunder and stripped of color
by the odious fragrance of bitter truth.
Pulse points of the heart retain fragrances
of memories that hurt and haunt,
That somehow weather the wear of time to creep
from the bars of the mind freed to taunt,
Bringing the return of what once was there
held with a shred of faith and a hank of hope,
Embroideries carefully wrought with dainty touch
as frail as thread and as strong as rope.