She reflects like a newly born widow
waiting to be pried open, dissected, and analyzed,
cause that's all she's worth now, oh well,
She drifts away on a closed storefront window
waiting to be contrasted and compared, washed of her dignity,
every last speck, rinsed from her fine glossy black hair,
She stares into her blurry future, remembering her clear past
waiting to be engulfed by the pitiful pattern,
cause now she's a natural, a painful poem,
She buries her overload of baggage in an oversized handbag
waiting for a thief to glance a peak and steal her secrets,
so we can construct, speak the story, and retell her tale,
She models a dress quaint and simple
waiting for the cash to purchase a new slate,
cause all this one offers is a reminder of better times,
She waits for hopeful holes in the pitch black sky to take her home
because the pavement is a despairing road,
Stained with your sweet lies by perfect words that fell,
from your sweet lips to create perfect hell.
Jordan Crider
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/it-was-raining/
