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.