Autumn settles in the dust

A lonely girl staking her home upon the Cathedral's steps

Far too proud to beg for

Another tomorrow.

She ignores the clergymen as they pass by

Writing with the ashes of her cigarette

'My dear, Autumn, where did you go?'

Upon the white-washed stone with

Closed eyes

Such pain in the third person

Such pride in her poverty

For she is,


Painted converse

Checkerboard clothes

Ripped and frayed and totally complete;

Such is Autumn Angel while she sleeps.'