Autumn settles in the dust
A lonely girl staking her home upon the Cathedral's steps
Far too proud to beg for
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
Such pain in the third person
Such pride in her poverty
For she is,
Ripped and frayed and totally complete;
Such is Autumn Angel while she sleeps.'