Untouched


It was a livid, angry red reminder,
ever present since that day
the canner, under pressure, blew apart.
Not one to dwell on hurtful things behind her,
she was compelled to see the way
companions tried to hide distaste, the dart

of eyes away, as if to bear the insight
from their view, a painful shock
far too grotesque to dare comportment stay.
Like furtive morphs, they seemed to need a twilight
time for her, not day, not night
deferring to the past, regards defray.

The worst were those who had been closest to her,
a happy childhood's best of friends,
her wedding's maid of honor, confidante,
if tete a tete, now they pore intently through her,
as if on blinded eyes depends
accord, actors playing the nonchalant.

It was a livid, angry red reminder,
ever present any day,
defacing scar where loveliness had reigned.
But, it would never be that which defined her,
untouched her radiant inner way
where lasting beauty is unscarred, unfeigned.


--Don Juan de Feu

 

 

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