The black curls, oh the resemblance to the night
clings to her forehead, distraught,
like the spider’s web shambled,
crooked, rubbing the forehead like the harsh waters
rubbing the grey stone, by the riverside.
Polishing it maybe, intriguing,
forlorn tales hit back, yet again
saying the clandestine, monotonous, words,
one by one, the whole nine yards.
Magic, Stealth, vigour,
anonymous all the emotions,
wrapped in the grey blanket
to the body to cover the bitter marks,
The black curls, congruence to the pain,
symmetrical to the thorns,
playing angles, all the way
Oh, these black curls falls the way
it did that day.