magdalene

A Poem by winter;lyra

forgotten dame
paid on laid
deepened gaze left but a graze
on the last man's pride

truce with the heavens
"i'm used to be used"
though
the maid is ingrained with shame
her c'est la vie's moot
a whiplash on her cheek
by daylight's stress
shades of blue at unusual places
and a few words in the streets with the usual tone
then
a stroke
followed by a cold
lonely stroll