Saved on a Sunday
Dust clings to cobwebs
like ashes to wind
A little girl huddles in the attic
praying for unknown sins
Moonlight creeps in
as sweat pulsates through pores
She hasn't seen daylight –
Whatever the hell for
Her movements rhythmic,
like that of a rocking chair
She sways to give herself fervour
Abandoning child without care
Drip, drop, drip
rain with its melodic sigh
Humming softly it is
Outside her spirit flies
Drip, drop , drip
As blue turns to red
Little girl at peace –
For she is dead.