Past the shady tresses, eyes beholding...
Holding something but foreboding
Seeks her soul one solitude - a solaced figure, not her own.
In shattered spirit and mudded fingers,
Hope, not faith, precludes the light.
And but a tint of flaming gas,
may keep her wanted, a little lass
For crowded, sheltered, masked is she
until a fire is burned, a spark ignited and peace molded.
Silent embarrassment and precaution...
Previous measures still forgotten
And events unspoken, find a figure chanced to never look her direction.
And so is she... a timid version
of second notion.
And poetry, though interpreted,