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.