today, it rains
o, window of mine, of thine.
you do sit and taunt
my poor meek and humble fingers,
toes,
legs,
nose,
why do you promise such different days?
or is it you, mind, who does such implorable things?
why, nay, how, must i conquer thee?
for the things that most frighten us,
will surely destroy us in the end.
unless, pray, a soul stretches and grips
to destroy the enemy of all lonely young girls;
the day disapointing.
