The Black Quandary

The black curls, oh the resemblance to the night clings to her forehead, distraught, like the spider's web shambled, crooked,   rubbing the forehead like the harsh waters  rubbing the grey stone, by the riverside. Polishing it maybe, intriguing, forlorn tales hit back, yet again saying the clandestine, monotonous, words, one by one, the whole nine yards. Magic, Stealth, vigour,  anonymous all the emotions, wrapped in the grey blanket to  the body to cover the bitter marks, The black curls, congruence to the pain, symmetrical to the thorns, playing angles, all the way Oh, these black curls falls the way it did that day. Conundrum, play.