The Final Act
By Walter Burns
Her robes of pure white Cannot hide the truth The secrets revealed in those hands Telling the tale of a vanishing youth In which illusion can only withstand Weaving her hands through autumns cool air Capturing hearts not willing to share The mime of mistrust Of things in his sight Sees the door of insanity’s watch As hands make life doves take flight With a curse he draws in his scotch Her charm enthralls them just as she demands Will no one examine those withering hands? This enchanted place Is only her stage In her eyes, I see she understands Though her body appears not to age The final act has taken her hands How she still weaves a spell in my heart? I think upon this from the time that we part Written February 2nd, 2002 © on Feb 02 2002 09:27 AM PST 0 • 10
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"Her robes of pure white..."