Sunday Rain
Sunday, and the rain fallscontinuously,
puddles forming
in between the rough cobbles.
Up in her apartment
Madame stares gloomily
out on to her balcony
watching her flowers
beaten by rain
She listens to music
that played from her past
and taking the broom
her escort
round the room
as into her eyes
his face floats on by
that smile to enchant
all gone, by and by.
A ring on her finger
he promised to buy
instead of the lingerie
in satins and silks
yet the rain plays
an accompaniment
and a smile
plays a tune
she'll dance in the twilight
just her
and her broom
Poetry by Elle
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Written on 2014-03-22 at 14:27
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