When she passes,
a ghost, a haunting has-been,
do you see her,
the girl with the high forehead
and clear, wide eyes?
Her anger is a wisp of cloud
she thrusts at your retreating back,
her misery an apple
rotting under a tree.
You have forgotten her name.
The walls have consumed her,
she is cream-colored brick that
you will pass every day without a glance
and yet, her eyes
will see you still.
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2 comments:
i completely know how you feel.
I like this one lots.
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