Shelley Frances Poems

In whose eye does my perfection lie?
If any but my own I live a perfect lie
No truer can be a heart, you see
Than mine that it beats exact for me
...

I think that I shall slip on ahead
Quietly, suddenly with nothing to dread
Painless and instant yet not in a rush
No gripe, no fuss but whisper and hush
...

Ah yes, the unavoidable shoebox
saved for you-never-know-what
sits on closet shelf in just the right spot
the pretty box with images of happy ladies in high shoes
...