Air-brush...

Sometimes she does not look for fear she cannot bear The Truth

Its stoic nature does not brush the air with softer lies

Nor does it change its mind; Time’s short attention span the proof

That there is always more to everything than meets our eyes

Thought's boulevard of memories is crowded; echoes flirt

Where once young glances touched across a slip of summer sea

But we are casualties of clock-tick-tock, its common hurt

Reflected in the hungry eyes of others quite like she

The sweetness of soft kisses, lilting laughter, setting sun

The briefness of glass slippers, princess gowns and apple-blooms

Startles her brave attention where Time's ownership becomes

A mirror where the aftermath of hours spill their plumes

Be careful, daring dreamer, you are not above the rest

Time’s gifted charter flowers into faded photographs

Sometimes she does not look for fear she overlooks life’s best

The brush within her hand that daily signs its autographs

© Janet Martin