She is no angel in disguise.
Fly's but not with gossamer rise.
She paints no portraits of pretense
Haunts no twilight zone of suspense.
Ghosts no themes or moonlight harrow.
Does not ride the vague of shadow.
Nor does she promise endless joy.
Or toy with me in playful ploy.
She's there as solid as can be,
With all her glad and misery.
And I touch her more the more,
As the years slide by, each score.
She strokes and turns something within.
Something genuine and sovereign.
She walks me, the abyss of fear.
And holds my hand cries tear for tear.
Abridges my dread of the blur
And for that alone, I'd love her.
She's half of our histories story
But deserves most of the glory.