Sandra
The wind blew a breeze on her side, cold and blue
While she clicked about on the concrete towards the balustrade
Meeting the Green River each night in secret
Had become a particular fancy she couldn't come to comprehend
But held to habit, nonetheless, as an impulse without an impulse to combat it
Mechanized to cue
Like the several cordial letters she'd written and scrapped
Because she had nothing left to say to you

Sandra watched the moonrise slowly, mirrored
In the river running by it drowned her mute reflection
Since last springtime, the wanton Ides of March
The fertile treasures of her tender heart had long been heaven spent
And not repaid, for the death of the king didn't change
The fact that the truth is not merchandise, bought and sold
Nor any longer a warm pair of drunken eyes
Planted in thick skin, rotten root of her love paroled

Finally free, and with nothing left to suffer
Sandra swam the abyss and leaned forward towards the water
The rhythm of her fate, like a timepiece ticking
Rocked her rigidly towards her untimely death
The only witness of the scene, a barter, but a humble man too
Not compromised by his occupation
Said when she gave up her ghost the clouds opened up
And thundered, "don't worry child, I have not forsaken you"