In a draped parlor,
The soft Lady
Waits on her brocade
Chair.
Delicate, tiny,
Slippered feet, soundless
As she rises,
Greets
Her guest. Always
Arriving on
Time. Never hurried,
Calm.
She turns over the
Keys to her mansion.
Opens the drapes
Wide.
Never sunlight.
Always complete
Darkness takes her chair.
Night
elysabeth faslund
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/evening-28/
