A Wounded Soul

BY CAROLE NICHOLS

Charming and witty, she was that most perfect of creatures;
and she wrapped you up in softest clouds of her illusion.
She had you spinning, you said,
dizzy in the head from wine you were fed.
Her lips were richly red and they beckoned and promised paradise;
hiding the sharpest of bitter, angry words which cut through your soul,
straight to your heart, carving and molding you into a puppet she controlled.

And was it not so subtle that you never knew when you lost yourself?
Was not each jab soothed by the warmest of kisses?
And I wonder when it was that you once more found your way,
and knew that woman she was, was but a yearned for dream.
When the night looms long and lonely,
do you remember when the world was right?

A smile was a smile, and a friend never waivered and never failed,
and the summer scents tasted of honeysuckle and truth.
And did you finally learn that what is inside shines ever more lovely than what the eyes can behold?
I was not told.
But I know that you walk quietly,
as not to stir the dream, nor be tempted by sultry eyes.

When the rains are falling, cold and hard
you walk uncaring to hide the pain,
Disillusionment leaves its ugly stain;
Is it the rain or is it your tears?