A Woman Of Forty-Eight Poem by becky jones

A woman of forty-eight
unconscious in the world,
and blind to it's weight,
journeyed through darkness,
in a catatonic state,
arrived mute on the doorstep,
of her past lover's estate.
Wistful to taste the sweetness,
of the love she did abate,
knowing any offering
comes too little, too late,
she peered through the keyhole
of her lover's locked gate
to read a sign that says,
“Nothing comes to those who wait.
You left, now turn away
and be mindful of your fate.”
We both expected better,
from a woman of forty-eight.