Was I bewitched so by the thin red line
to notice not that time released its hold
and let pale Iris snip the silver twine
to steal sweet youth before it turned to gold.
Existence now is not what I was told;
no seraphim and harps to grace my ear,
just silence, painful silence, and the cold
discomfort of my masochistic fear,
so icy cold, yet somehow seems to sear
my soul until the ache’s too much to bare,
as mortal life mirages now appear:
intangible are they; away they tear.
Mistake, it was; the curtain fell too soon
when razor’s edge did charm me like the moon.
© Stage Diva