Subtle flower-wisps vainly lay beyond immoral grasp
in attitude respondent forcing bleak enabled mourning,
she waits unnoticed — stammered shakes unfold.
Still her garden swells fuchsia Bougainvillea,
ash-crevassed from last night as she reaches
for the hose to wash away dullness’s pain.
Sojourn significant, ambling obnoxious,
she bends at the tap of the swill effervesced,
’til later depressed by unthought mesmerizations,
belittled belongings or thud-like depressed,
in latitude likened to disheartened chasms
acknowledged torn antediluvian breast.
The phone seldom rings, invitations obscure,
tomorrow remembers its left-handed curse,
obsequious-tarnish, while dusk
settles attire, she is lost in his
And it never has ended like this,
but this time it has to forgo underlinings,
undressed yet forgotten in memory lost,
a loss so extreme as she lay down forgotten,
unsung, yet forgiven, unbound by its cost.
And the phone seldom rings anymore, and
she’ll never get up from the floor.