Something to ponder on.

Choice
By Emily Dickinson

OF all the souls that stand create
I have elected one.
When sense from spirit files away,
And subterfuge is done;

When that which is and that which was
Apart, intrinsic, stand,
And this brief tragedy of flesh
Is shifted like a sand;

When figures show their royal front
And mists are carved away,—
Behold the atom I preferred
To all the lists of clay!

Pathways set, but the road map is not always clear.
When things are bad, we take comfort in the thought that
they could always be worse. When they are, we find hope
in the thought that things are so bad they have to get better.

What lies behind us and what lies ahead of us are
tiny matters compared to what lies within us.

Thanks, yoro42

I think the mystery of woman, myth or otherwise, actually infers
there's much that lies beneath the surface. Rita Dove described
Lady Day (with her "burned voice") that way for good reason.
If the "Canary" can't be free, be a mystery. What do you think?

Enjoy Billie Holiday - One For My Baby

Mystery women

Every day for a year
she would sit across from me on the train
her perfume always light and dreamy
her dress perfect
her body insane

Like clock work
I would sit just behind her
out of site
drinking in her curves
the very essence of her sight

Wishing to speak to her
fearing the unknown
go talk to her
not sit here all alone

6 months of this
fell in love with a lady I did not know
I final went and sat next to her
asked her if she was alone

She looked at me with eyes
that shimmered with light
have a seat here if you like
my stop is next have a good night

Just like that she was gone
not before leaving a piece of paper in my hand

You watched me for a year
and I waited and waited till I could not wait no more
I wish we would have known each other just a little that's all
but now I say good by
leaving I must go
love the mystery women
the one you let go

The paper went in the trash
my heart I took home
sometimes chances
should not be left alone
Vincent Armone

(Jack Martin died at dawn on July 12, 1925. Sharlot write in her diary: "Never say of me that I am dead.
Say that I have gone on an eternal prospecting trip.")

Now, here I cache the useless pack
I nevermore shall need;
And here I take the Longest Trail
Wherever it may lead.
Beyond the Range—beyond the range
Oh, strong and sure and free!
I quest for more than life has brought
And more than eyes can see.

Oh, desert skies and desert stars
And desert trails I knew;
Brown peaks that hold the dream of gold,
I turn no more to you.
Oh, nevermore I turn to you
At dawn or set of sun—
For campfire's light, or nuggets bright
The golden day is done.

Now, stake for me a last, last claim
And lay them there to rest
The trailworn feet, the weary hands,
The still heart in my breast.
Earth's last prospecting trip is done,
But somewhere, strong and sure,
My spirit seeks the Mother-lode
Whose treasure shall endure.

Out, out beyond the farthest star,
Beyond the last lone peak;
More fair than desert-born mirage
The Glory Land I seek.
No monuments are on the trail,
The way is dim and strange—
But light of God is on the land
That lies Beyond the Range.