Kensington girls can't sing,
Delicate flowers that cut the crowd,
They stand timeless, tall and prim,
Heirs resting on graces, waiting silent and proud,
For trains, draped in fine things,
And a love that they are allowed,
To whom they can speak with, via lightly shadowed eyes,
A lover who sees them, and only them,
For their worth, and not their prize,
Yet, this flora wears district distain like never before,
As sharp suitors present brief cases to the lowly platform floor,
With tired animosity in bloom, cloaked behind their guise,
The heart pleats,
Soft velvet stares tailored to pain and sting,
Tempt lesser gentlemen to sin,
Or for once, to finally feel something.
No comments:
Post a Comment