I saw him
standing in the black & darkened doorway,
His head
down & hands behind his back, there to stay,
His hat slouched,
hiding shadowed face & furrowed brow,
Alley cat
rubbed his leg & walked away with plaintive meow,
His grey
suit slicked oily, with an even greyer & sadder rain,
Dripping
down the heart on his sleeve, in drops of sorry pain,
Held loosely
in one limp hand, a red & flawless weeping rose,
The sad flower,
awaiting its fate, in its quiet perfumed repose,
The door-bell
pressed by cold finger, rang & stayed unheeded,
Mingling
tears & raindrops upon cheek, mocking & wetly beaded,
The old church
clock chimed its distant & so cruel midnight hour,
And his cold
fist tightened, around that poor dejected red flower,
He turned
away from the doorway, that just stared at him & froze,
And upon
cold, grey, greasy cobbles, he flung away the unloved rose.
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