Ashamed, she slinks back
to her decrepit warehouse.
Even
the optimistic sun
could not bear seeing her, and so
disappeared,
blanketing her in sympathetic
darkness. Her diminished soul
yearns only for a love
she cannot reach,
and she grimaces
in a limping mental pain.
As an orphan, and now
still as a homeless woman,
she’d always been an outcast,
not fit for
the colorful quilt
God had sewn.
She had never contemplated
suicide, but had mastered
the blissful release of physical pain,
saving herself from drowning
in a personal
stygian pool of melancholy.