Post by amelie on Feb 13, 2004 0:35:40 GMT -5
Clarissa takes her palette and brush,
And draws a picture of her life;
A tiny rowboat at sunset,
Under violet storm clouds,
Rudderless and sinking.
A pale splash of light,
Aquamarine and sapphire,
Fringed around the lost,
Little wooden hull;
Her only hope, in face
Of the darkness encroaching.
In her mind, she chases down
Endless empty halls of
Frosted mirrors, tantalising
With offerings of hope that slide
Away in effortless deception,
Like ice across waxed glass.
This is what girls learn;
That dreams are no more
Substantial than a loveheart,
Scribbled in the sand
On a beach at low tide,
To be washed away
By the passage of the moon.
Down empty halls
With frosted mirrors,
Chasing the truth behind
The illusions of her sex;
On a beach at low tide,
Stick in hand, sharing
Her hapless dreams
With an indifferent ocean;
Or a lost rowboat at sunset,
Desperate to outrun
The approach of the tempest.
This little boat
Will sail on somehow;
She will not falter and drown,
Or rock shut like a seashell,
And spend her days in penance
Beneath the barely rippling
Surface of a silent rock pool;
Among others that scuttle
And cringe, seeking the shade.
Remember the fringe of light!
It is the energy of lightning;
Her salvation is in the thunder;
She is a woman, after all.
