Red Umbrella

The last you said hello to me was on the day you died.
It all started when you went out for a rainy day ride.
The rain poured down, but you didn't care.
Of your dark fate you were unaware.

One false move and you hit a telephone pole
releasing your delicate and fragile soul.
The rain poured down along with your red blood
as the street you were on began to flood.

Forehead touching the steering wheel
in your bright red automobile.
Long, soft, brown, curly hair with light brown eyes.
An angel died under stormy gray skies.

Your once white dress now soaked in red
helped confirm on site you were dead.
A motionless girl with soft pale skin
with bruised eyes and a bloody scabbed chin.

At the funeral the makeup didn't fix your face.
The many scars you received were too hard to erase.
Wearing your red dress as the minister speaks
I'm constantly staring at your pink blushed cheeks.

I hold your red umbrella as you go under ground.
I am truly going to miss having you around.
Flowers placed upon your grave each Friday night.
I know it happens....but it doesn't feel right.