Living

I met her in a whirlwind of romance.
Smile was her veil of hurt,
evening fire was her lips,
tumult was her freckled face.
Free but reckless passion assured her,
almost numb, almost divine!
Her soul was glorified by my flesh
and others'.
Again and again.
Then came love, doubt!
There, she created music of eternity
from memory of tears and decay.
She was the darkest and the kindest-
a saint and a whore; an oscillation!
She died once at the alter of
a million rules of a few men.
Not anymore,
slow redemption of a benevolent slut.
She is living.