Beneath the paint that's swathed across her face,
There's someone who is fighting the surrender.
But through she sweeps, with airs of crafted grace,
and smiles at the gazes people send her.
Her dark red lips form many gentle phrases;
they dangle for a moment--then fall flat.
Her pleasing figure receives tacit praises;
her darkened shadow's draped across the path.
The dashing men in desperation cling
to slender arms of hers that wave and sway
to the music of the coming Spring;
the crowd with admiration parts the way.
But when doors close and then alone she sleeps,
she thinks about the nothingness and weeps.