Ladies dripping in ink,
‘kerchiefs slipping from limp fingers,
Rivers run to the brink
Ending on my nose, a lonely drip lingers.
The phantom piano plays,
A lonely tune reaches out,
With a hand that slowly sways
To young women who shout.
They say raven locks fell to her shoulders,
Daisy chains entrancing her like the moon
Who gave her a sweet promise that he would hold her,
But her face frozen in sleep never woke up that afternoon.
Emotions seem to pool at her wrists,
People seem to love her more,
But they all know her dying wish,
Was for people to grieve no more.
Seeing streaky faces,
Plowing through the inky crowd,
Wanting my grief to take me places,
But every silent scream I make brings me to the shroud.
