Here lies this damsel of golden hair she be,
and some would say that she
quite the original beauty.
But she is sleeping on the curb,
with her hair a ratted tangled mess.
Pieces of her daffodil garments wrapped about her
body like a drunken prom dress.
No one can wake her. Oh damsel,
whatever is your name?
Who went and left you here,
on this street corner,
library arm chair?
What happened to your long flowing sunlight locks?
Where is your family, and where do you belong?
Sleep bequeaths you in the most queer of all places.
Why just a few blocks away,
strangers saw you walking upright on the sidewalk spaces,
and now you dream it all away; on a concrete curb
with your head bleeding in the gutters.
You snore, and you drool on this driveway,
yet utter not a word.
How much time has passed since you last
laid your weary head?
For this pavement,
you slumbering cyclone,
is no substitute
for a fair
Oh narcoleptic beauty, who gave you this disease? Poor sleeping damsel in the street.
Molly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw.