The scene is playing in her mind;
a stranger with a passing smile
and careless charm with youth aligned
in casual captivating style.
He holds the office door that she
may pass through corridors of grey.
His passion she would rather be.
Such musings though, she cannot say.
She writes their story in her book,
a secret journal closely held,
where no one else could ever look;
the gaze of others duly quelled.
And yet he never plays the part
her fantasies prescribe for him.
He stays polite, detached in heart.
At length, her fervent prose grows dim.
Through vacant hours, her bruised pen drips
in solitary shades of blue,
to blot out words her muted lips
would not disclose as being true.
The narrative is left to fade
to sepia, erased through years,
on pages curled in brittle shade;
a silent ballad no one hears.
© Lisa-Jane La Grange
I originally wrote Faded Narrative in free verse and was not happy with the result.
I prefer to write in rhyme.
Faded Narrative is a poem about love that can never be disclosed. It tells a sad story of silence and isolation that seems to have become prevalent in the modern world.
