What’s that stuff called…

Dew

Unnoticed she’s carried, innocently drawn
settling in deep, preceding the dawn,
sleepy and sallow against a facade
damply pausing as first lights applaud,
teased without malice, heartless yet alive
sensing and waiting, careless to survive,
still she dawdles, no promise of morrow
fading each day but without sorrow;
when will he learn, when will he know
she’s come and gone and he’s no beau.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s