Half drawn curtains and beyond blue bars,
Beneath the grey sky in a bundle of flowers,
A trail lies smitten with coldness wrought damp
That searches its blurring identity in oil lit lamp.
The ivory curtains and tassels on breeze
Fail to conceal the eye lashes fretting the freeze
Stark as the silence and cold as the rain
In hushed whisper as they observe the shivery lane.
A hint of mizzle on the window sill,
Like haste attempt at embellishing dullness with frill,
Like A breathless frame spanning the length of grey
She caresses her locks in nervousness that brings promises of fray.
How it passed, the bated mirth?
How it looms in ice on the once fretted hearth?
A mockery could carve its history of corsage
As an unanticipated respite from a fireball of cage.
Half drawn curtains and rust smelling gate
Above which the grey sky rhythms with fate
And the rustling leaves whisper the tale of the mizzle
That doused the lamp, leaving a frail trail in grizzle.
