There is a Woman

There is a woman that he knows, who, complete within this world, arrived fifty-one years ago, beautiful, ready to be shaped, unique of self. Buttressed much the same as others born within her space, blessed with normal sapience and senses. What she might face, what she might be, were promised by the sum of human possibility, and mated with the knowledge of her time.

But also in her way, unlike the others. Sensitive, sublime, uncertain, and wholly tempered by her soul, which rested full behind her eyes, and beat within her heart. The tympani of that bold pulse could never be obscured for long, though her song was masked by the darkened eyes and murky truths of the people who claimed her as their own.

Eventually, she believed her value was diminished, and had flown, because that is what they told her, and how they scolded her, and how they hurt her. She arose each day, and in her mind (which was the private world of her belief) felt a little less than what she was the day before, accepting the abuse of lesser souls, the harsh truth tolling in her outer world, the one comprised of injury, and neglect.

There is a man who saw the damaged girl reflected in the eyes of a beautiful woman, hidden to herself, sweet and caring, worthy of attention; and his love, bidden from her heart to his, moved nearer. No expectation lived within the arms he used to follow, with comfort and with tears, the shadows of devotion sans regret, that he might yet live within her world, shrouded by her brief embrace.

He feels the tracing beauty of her soul, belief in the falling of her truth, bolder now, discovered and shared, in time for him to hold and call the memory of her smile and her love, freed from what he knew was once ensnared.