My Poetry. Mysterious Girl.

He met her on the silent corner,
In a forgotten street near his own town.
She was a girl of no substance, barely there,
Her face fixed perpetually in a cold frown.
He tried to claim her attention daily,
But she ignored his every desperate word;
He refused to concede, refused to simply give up,
Standing there, looking feeble and absurd.

Day after day, he made his careful stop,
Sometimes lingering just for a distant glance,
Going miles out of his mapped-out way,
Hoping for their meeting by purest chance.
Her very existence completely enthralled him,
He had never wanted anything more from life's score,
Determined to never break or finally give up,
Resolved to somehow even up the unknown score.

But still, she always denied his reality,
A silent plea that she wished to be left in peace.
The surrounding, chilling mystery only deepened—
A vast, intricate jigsaw with one remaining piece.
One afternoon, he walked right up beside her,
Intentionally staring into the empty space;
Her eyes were like twin, ancient caverns,
Deep black voids, unblinking, showing no disgrace.

The day of her ultimate vanishing finally arrived;
She was gone instantly, without a single trace.
Was the entire encounter merely a fevered vision?
This strange girl without a true, living face?

© William Sinclair Manson 2025