Leaving behind the sanctified ground
with its musty grasses and dead blooms
the woman discards the gown of black
and begins to reclaim herself from the abyss.

She knows the tales the headstones tell
in the far corners of bleakest darkness
she’s seen beyond the limits
of unscathed mortal understanding
where the Dorian Gray incarnates
roam freely amongst angels in the bright of day.

Unmercifully left behind she shudders.
As the bell continues to toll.
she attacks the onslaught
layer by layer, shred by shred, until
everything is covered, hidden well.

She’s chosen her new facade carefully,
as bright as tomorrow may well be
the mask is in place and she,
refusing the comfort of eyes long dead,
or a heart numbed from aching,
vanquishes it all donning gilded gown.

With invisible shield in hand she roams
over and through the remaining dimensions of life
liberally bestowing smiles upon all
and juggling time in perfect synch.

Layer upon layer of tears now dried,
hope forever within her,
mourning becomes comfort,
the ordinary order of things.

The smiles continue, the games play on
as the days repeat in haunting echoing
she places them in a carefully cultivated,
tended with love, garden of time
knowing inevitably they will return.

And behind the mask she quietly weeps,
the salty, stinging, redemptive tears
of those who have seen beyond
and like her, stood their ground
and fought, and fought, and fought again,
and somehow,
managed to victoriously survive.

© Marcia MillerTwiford