Brush And Scissors

Who was she who lived in her mirror
In a high, shaded room awaiting her lover
You woucld not count the strokes through her hair
Which sooths her before she thought of the scissors.

We grew used tro seeing that yelowed window
At night, pale as an escalade up to the moon...
Werre your or I her lover we'd have ridden it down
And listened at her sill for the lift of her song...

We'd have lowered down lilacs on a silver string
Or reeled up her stairway bearing roses and roses.
Yet, as passerby or neighbor we did not do a thing,
Gave her no reason to keep up her hair or the poses

She struck for herself in the glass. Is it this much
We must answer for: that her girl's single grace
Was in a dwindling circle kept to itself; that such
Loveliness lived unanswered with only itself to face?

It was when at last no other lone one came to her
That, in summary gesture she picked up her scissors
And lifted it to her head like a little loaded revolver
And sheared her soft life and blackened her mirror.

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