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