She had long flowing hair and longings
to be seen
to be beautiful
to be desired.

“What are the words,”
she wondered,
“that are painted on my forehead?
Do they say stay away?”
She would scrub her skin raw if it would erase them.

She had long flowing hair and longings
to be a poet
from another more romantic time,
or the mysterious muse
of a roguish artist
whose depths only she could mine.

Beneath the arched stone window
in a small nook of the musty library
She sat cross-legged on the worn red cushion
and inhaled centuries of novels,
inhabited worlds
so far from the small coal mining town
she longed to escape.

The college on the river
was her chance.
The row of old stone buildings
Looking down on the rural campus
From the top of the grass-covered hill,
The gilded age mansions converted to dorms,
The octagon chapel and columned library.
This was the village
Where she imagined her dreams would come true.

But the roguish artists had other muses
And her crime of rhyming
Banished her from the creative writing program.
So her dreams dried up
And disappeared like coal dust
In the breezes from the river.

She had long flowing hair and longings
And did not know
That one day, when her hair no longer flowed,
she would be her own muse
And create from coal dust
And memories and love
A life of beauty where,
at last,
she was seen and desired.

Debra Rose Brillati
April 2018