The Illusion. . .






I try to grasp your beloved face,
graphically placing it on the mind’s canvas,
filling the valleys with fuller’s earth and
chiseling the planes with a serpent’s tooth.
Devouring every detail with a feverish eye
to circumvent time’s mortal immortality.

But why do I bother with mortal flesh
precluding the wonders of life everlasting?
I love you.  Simple.   Your brow extends
to captivate the eyes in locked conflict, then laughs
to meet the corners of your mouth wandering about
in search of a smile.

Your arms encircle the wonder of meeting
life on certain terms, then range in motion to
include the All.  A frantic mask we disengage
when discoveries make true a knowledge irredeemable.

But still I chase the memory of you
only minutes out the door.   I cannot remember the face
of you.   I know the strength, the laugh, the love
you reaped upon the wind to leave a mark on me.
I am forever different.   But the other, the package
assembled to meet specific requirements for this
particular place, are as specious as memory and
eradicated by time

like a pen and ink drawing.


Photo by Jon Katz

One response to “The Illusion. . .”

  1. email from Jane Mc. . . Love this piece Veronica…and how true it is! Our beloveds are simply who they are and it isn’t so much about appearance at all!

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