Phoebe

The turn of lovely days, rouge her high cheek bones, a scimitar of alluring ways, the cafe's and the diners, shake out yesterday’s clothes, seek solace in others blindness, this is not to say, except inside her yellow home, she would tolerate a parade, where usual debts are paid, in cool bath robes, blue for the evening trade, our lady makes her case, wherever a light is shone, at fate that always strays, no matter if there's wine, no river can ever hold, the strength of someone wise, give to them who glow.