Winded around the darkened alley
night nestles around the iron gate,
perched upon the wicker bench
she sits, draped in satin ivory
waiting, watching, wanting
something
yet nothing at all.

A single crimson rose settles
like delicate velvet in her hands
she sits crisp, staring steadfast
always gazing, never blinking
staring into the twilight abyss
waiting, watching, wanting
something
yet nothing at all.

Evening upon evening
never shifting, never talking
she thinks to herself
what would it feel like
to be a ghost
to be invisible
to escape from this modern reality
to always be alone
and sit perched, poised
upon this wicker bench
she's grown so fond of
waiting, watching, wanting...

Can you feel the truth
as it settles in?

Can you deny this verity
when it's staring you
straight in the eyes
boring into
the window
to your very soul?

Are you still sure of
the things you know best?

Just for the record
the weather tonight
is partly soused with
occasional bursts of
despair and melancholy.

Deplorable, isn't it?

Maybe this is
what you know best.

Waiting, watching wanting..

No matter how long
she sits within
this tragedy,
yearning..

He's never coming back.