Woman at the Airport

Found a person whom I thought looked interesting at the airport during my stopover yesterday, and gave her a story. 

Several hundred years ago, she was beautiful

And her pearls looked poised and perfect at her throat

Her eyes were keen, discerning, ever dancing,

Her hands were new and soft and delicate.

Pure her voice was, not warbling as it is now

And pure her mind, innocent of the world’s diseases.

Now, she, stooped and wrinkled, travels the world,

Garbed in black to show her mourning for the loss

Of youth, agility, dexterity, her fleeting beauty

Long since flown, and now the only remnants

Enhanced by blush, mascara, and lipstick.

Now she, who once had friends and laughed with them,

Has lost them all, but clings to what is past,

As she rushes ‘round – rushes, tries to, at least,

More like shuffles, stooped, solemnly –

From place to place, to try and see the world

While there is still left a little time.