She sits alone, the chair her throne,
With hands like parchment, pale and worn,
Her gaze is fixed, yet far away—
Beyond the glass, beyond the gray.
The rain taps soft like whispered names
Upon the fogged and trembling panes,
Each drop a ghost from long ago,
Each ripple something she should know.
A garden blooms inside her mind—
Or did it once, in some lost time?
She sees the roses, feels the sun,
But can't recall where they begun.
The window holds a shifting scene:
A boy, a dog, a field of green,
Then melts away in silver streams—
Was that her child, or just a dream?
Her fingers twitch with some intent,
A lace of thought, half-formed, unkempt.
She mouths a word, but it won’t stay—
It floats like mist, then fades away.
The rain keeps falling, calm and slow,
As if the world still cares to show
That even when the past won’t stay,
There’s peace in watching it slip away.
And so she waits with softened eyes,
While time, like raindrops, gently flies—
A silent queen in quiet grace,
Framed by a window, lost in space.
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