The Forgotten Woman

In the wee hours of Dawn's early light, I chanced a glance upon a beautiful woman

She wore a long, multicolored summer dress that kissed the ground she walked upon

Her hair was long and disheaveled as if she had merely woken up but it was apparent that

she would still be beautiful, despite just awakening 

I, in all my awe, sat upon my rickety chair upon the porch and pondered on

the creature that walked my way, as if entranced 

Who was she? I wanted to get to know her.

She stopped in front of my porch, wearing a quizzical look and looking at the book

held in my hands

It was the Broken Eye by Brent Weeks, a novel I could not put down 

"What is it that you are reading?" she asked me, no preamble. Her voice 

was not to be expected. It was deep and husky, like a dream. 

I quickly found my voice. "Broken Eye by Brent Weeks." 

She smiled and she wore adorable dimples that matched her soft gaze. 

Eyes of immense gravity, blue like a sapphire, rich like the ocean. They appeared

suddenly sad though as she bit her lip and looked East, as if needing to leave but 

wanting to stay. 

"What is your name?" I finally asked, after a pregnant silence. Her head stayed turned,

and I could just make out a glisten of a tear on her cheek. 

"My name..." she whispered, confused. She looked back at me and she weighed 

me quietly. "I don't remember my name." 

It hit me like a hurricane. This beautiful woman, with beauty that could 

be glorified at the top of the highest mountain, had early dementia and it saddened me

unconsciously. 

But before more could be said, she turned her back on me and softly floated away

like a mirage. 

I would never forget her. 

This poem is about: 
Our world

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