In this town, of park and stone
The rain comes every day
Scrubbing clean the grime accrued
Of city's sin and labor's clay.
And perched in a window is The Girl
Who cannot forget
The blackest times of this dismal street
And the fractures forming, yet.
Because this present darkness
Will in surest memory fade
For the blessed many
Who at night let go the day
But She will sit in her lonely sill
Knowing there are none who will relate
As they, unburdened, meander on
As she drags behind a weight.
It's a heavy story, drenched and clothed,
In the mud, the rain and black
That speaks unfondly of us all
Of our unkind lack.
And though an inch of glass is all there is
To keep her from below
Always on that edge She sits
Come storm, come fire, or snow.
The truth is she would leap
But for that lonely inch of glass
And The Bottom longs for the day they meet
As it stares back up and laughs
But as if a laugh in lover's quarrel
It drives her to spite
To serve as the homily's vanguard
And bring a candle to the night
Because though that little inch is all she has
She knows that inch is hers
And it will not be given, freely
Nor will it pass unheard.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 7:37 AM UTC
In this town, of park and stone
The rain comes every day
Scrubbing clean the grime accrued
Of city's sin and labor's clay.
And perched in a window is The Girl
Who cannot forget
The blackest times of this dismal street
And the fractures forming, yet.
Because this present darkness
Will in surest memory fade
For the blessed many
Who at night let go the day
But She will sit in her lonely sill
Knowing there are none who will relate
As they, unburdened, meander on
As she drags behind a weight.
It's a heavy story, drenched and clothed,
In the mud, the rain and black
That speaks unfondly of us all
Of our unkind lack.
And though an inch of glass is all there is
To keep her from below
Always on that edge She sits
Come storm, come fire, or snow.
The truth is she would leap
But for that lonely inch of glass
And The Bottom longs for the day they meet
As it stares back up and laughs
But as if a laugh in lover's quarrel
It drives her to spite
To serve as the homily's vanguard
And bring a candle to the night
Because though that little inch is all she has
She knows that inch is hers
And it will not be given, freely
Nor will it pass unheard.
That spelling of "sine" is intentional.
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