That girl sitting in the corner there
The one with the deep, burgundy hair.
I know her from some time before
But from where I can’t be sure.
She glances up in this direction,
But her gaze holds no recollection.
It must be I’m wrong, I see
That she doesn’t seem to know me.
That woman with the pierced nose,
Hair held up with a crimson rose.
I know her, I do, her face, her voice,
Her turn of phrase and drink of choice.
Content is she, alone with thought,
From her mind her muse is sought.
Coffee poised part way to lip,
Words once more from a pencil trip.
That girl over there with the biker boots
The short, cord skirt and the jacket from a suit.
Her ambition etched clear on a ruffled brow.
She would change her way if she knew now
How deep those lines would wrinkle.
Many a crease around eyes that twinkle.
She’s writing now as a thought takes hold,
Her coffee soon will be stone cold.
That girl over there with the stiffened spine
Her words she has determined will shine.
I watch her now and sigh in sorrow
Her shining moment won’t come tomorrow.
Or in the months and years yet to pass
They stretch before her as a giant crevasse.
Into this chasm her prose will spill
Her drive and ambition diminished to nil.
I see me as I used to be,
But she can’t see herself in me.
She the ghost of passions lost,
Knowing not what her choices will cost.
Ambition and verve supplanted by dread
Of ridicule and being torn to shreds.
I see her and I recall that spark
It’s hidden now so deep in the dark.
She collects her things, drink now discarded
Her countenance, somewhat guarded.
Her eyes touch mine and there’s a shimmer
An almost smile, really just a glimmer.
She knows me and she knows my fears
She sees the shine of my unshed tears
She believes that which I have forgotten
That which comes easy is worthless and rotten