The Unfinished Tale

A benediction of the highest degree,
Built up by dreams but weighted by pain;
Like a wilting rose never touched by a bee,
It's a story, a journey waiting to begin.

"Is it in the eyes?" he wonders with a sigh,
As slowly he rips up his latest fantasy.
Quietly, he asks again, "Is it in the eyes?"
But the words, like salty tears, roll away.

Somewhere, somewhere, she's writing herself,
Becoming the woman she thinks she should be.
The mascara and blush are her only help,
Tying down a foolish spirit yearning to be free.

"Is it in the soul?" she wonders, biting her lip,
As she smiles once more while the world frowns.
The thought distracts her, makes her mind slip;
Quickly, she reaches to steady her imagined crown.

In a stuffy room, amidst the dark of night,
A typewriter dings and a page is pulled free.
Aged eyes scrutinize every line they write;
A tale of the future, one of broken destiny.

A cigarette burns brightly in a wrinkled hand
And the smoke licks at the pages already done.
Slowly the smell settles on each, like a brand...
Once again changing what the tale may become.

Exhalation brings a cloud of musky disregard
As the writer wonders what the story is about.
On the tip of the cigarette stands a bright
glowing shard
Which he grinds into the pages until the flame
burns out.