Under the glare of flourescent
reflecting off a dirty worn floor,
there is a stooped grey-haired woman,
haggard and poor.
A face once reflective of joy and of hope,
now vacant and hazy--
so much easier to not cope.
Near five in the morning as travelers wait for their bus,
she laughs at untold jokes,
disappearing into a coat enveloped in must.
Her gaze wanders the room and lands on a broken payphone,
picking it up,
her mind hears the spectre of a dial tone.
Haunted by regret,
captured by moments disappeared,
memory frozen in time,
the past her mind hears.
Whispering to phantoms,
reliving fragments of youth,
she resides where dreams never die and fantasy is truth.
Pieces of heartache blend into a canvas of loss.
She wades through waters of illusion
where the shore of reality lay just across.
Her conversation has drawn indifferent attention.
For passersby,
she is only part of the shadows,
barely warranting passing mention.
But to the frail wanderer uttering into a disconnected line,
life is hers again for one moment
in her endless flow of time.
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