Her hands, unsteady, drew the lines
That sculpted lips of red.
Her eyes still saw her image smile
From the poster above her bed.
Her face, once smooth and pink with youth,
Was wrinkled, pale, and drawn
From years of pain-filled, sleepless nights
That tediously crept along.
Her eyes, now rheumy, had been clear
And saw a different life
That left no time for motherhood
Or the duties of a wife.
Oh, she’d been free to live the way
Many girls had dreamed,
Dancing, drinking, money flowed….
Nothing as it seemed.
She had been so elegant,
Long legs and waspish waist,
And men had fallen at her feet
Just begging for a taste.
Now, alone, her footsteps were
A solitary drone,
Tapping on her apartment floor
Or clicking on the stone.
Her vermilion lips, somewhat awry,
Cocked in rueful smile.
She’d had it all, and lost it all,
But, God, she still had style.