PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Her hair was done up, her blue dress was on. Her eyes were wide, but no one showed up. She knew why.

She was not stood up; she had known he would not show. He had sadly told her so, and that he was sorry. She did not blame him, it was not his fault.

It was Death’s fault; he stole his mom’s mom. He took her from Life’s grasp.

So she had to dance alone, in slow shapes that have no name. She had to laugh, so her group would not know that she was sad. And she hid it well. Only he would have seen through it.

But he was gone, if only for the end of the week. He was gone and he was missed. Missed by the girl in the blue dress, with her hair done up, the girl with the black shoes.

The girl, in her blue dress and hair all done up will miss him. But she knows it isn’t his fault.

I know this for sure. For, I am that girl.