Chipped nail polish, a traveller moves on

Waiting with wakefulness

Native to only night, in hours before daylight,

Alights her cold fingers, in practised mindlessness

On the ashes at her feet, where she had spent the night.

 

To a bored traveller, up a morn earlier than those that sing

This sight of her fingers, bewitched him to complete submission

Chipped nail polish of a colour, she would reproduce in every succeeding painting,

He beheld, in stark contrast to the ashes, of the fire the night before, another rendition.

 

When the first light seeped in unwanted, blue and white

The elements dissolved, blurred beauty now plain, old wretch

Registering grief, coming out of shock, she stirred ever so slightly, he was appalled to see the sight

Of but a woman, a miserable woman, in the bosom of a burnt house, in this desolate stretch,

 

Where neither human nor humanity ever did corrupt

With fragrant vapours of rotting corpses

That’s where she lives, up , up and up

And the traveller, understood.

And the traveller, moved on.

 

 

 

 

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