Too Late, She's Gone

What choice do you have but to gaze upon her? What choice do you have but to gaze upon her lovingly? What choice do you have but to gaze upon her comely frame and fashionable hat?

Look how death stains her windows. Look how she strives there to cut through the stains. The more she cleans, the more death stains.

What, viewers, can she do?

She can do nothing. So she sits there, in the window, an empty portrait. Passing before her, the carnival of street. Ratchet-faced girls on rollerskates, flashing their knickers. Full scrubbed boys of football taunts and broken bicycles. Of nothing much to interest her there.

Draw the curtains then, you silly old witch.

No, magic flower of heart and passion, fight to keep them open!