Wednesday 17 September 2008

a lesson in composure



Self expression

It was not her hair but still
something about the choice
conveyed a sadness
that was more than a wig.

Her coat was buttoned up
to her chin, and fell
to her knees, past a skirt
or something unseen.

The shoes she walked in
were built for strides,
not steps, but all
she managed were baby ones.

Mascara did not run
down her cheeks though
it was raining quite hard
and she wore it openly.

She looked straight
into my face, and told me
something with an expression
hidden by each of these things.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I like this poem. It is well scripted and has an air of mystery about it. Also, it's well written.