She wanted no traces of their meeting,
And, she was an expert at that,
Like the many times they were together,
He stared into the open; helpless, smitten
It wasn't him, but it was him, afterall,
And it was his head on the chopping block,
He knew he had no way out; She was mean,
And had her gadgets drawn out for the kill, gingerly
She had him by his white starched shirt,
Between the first and second button, precisely,
With one swish had him fade to history,
Had him slump to the ground, lifeless
She picked him up nonchalantly, and trashed him,
And examined what was left; pleased, satisfied,
A beautiful silver framed photo of her sitting,
Her head against the end of a white starched curtain
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Post a Comment