Lipstick a word, in many a song,
Gentle love and accusing wrong;
But the lipstick of grief is another thing,
Moulded shape with a memory sting.

Remove the top from the metal tube,
Twist the prison of the coloured hue.,
View the shape of the lips now gone
Moulded still in a memory song.
Fingerprints make a man unique
But a worn lipstick will also speak,
Of lips no longer there to kiss,
A smile, a pout or words to miss.

And so it was as 1 raised the tube,
A lipstick case used by you,
'Twas then 1 saw the moulded shape
And my soul cried out to death in hate.

Still yet I touched my lips with thine,
Cursing death as I smoothed a line,
No matter the tears that flowed my face
I knew my action had a place.


For now the mould is double fold
Grief no longer buried there;
Your lips are free, living still
God has touched me with His Will.

©Helen Catherine Cramer