To A Cynical Woman Poem by Joseph Martin III

Autumn wearing robes of orange.

Sunsets painted in violet hues.

Dreams floating across azure skies.



The romantics' tools born

out of the wide-eyed child

we all once knew so well.

A thin golden thread

too often cut on the shining edge

of logic and reason.



Leave this mask

beside the beckoning river.

We can still walk once more

embraced by the amber meadow.

We are too young

to feel so cold.



The world will always wait.


1988/rev.2006