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The Tragic Tale of Eleanor Rigby MAG
The woman’s face in the stained glass
Has haunted me since the day I was married.
During the church services..
I always hear her voice warbling from down the echoing halls
As if she lives in her own delusional world.
Her face is made up with layer upon layer of makeup.
She waits patiently in the pew long after church hours..
The priest doesn’t pay any attention to her.
He works day and night, by the glow of his Tiffany lamp.
His hands are cracked and dry. Ink dirties his fingernails.
He worked on a sermon
That is supposedly never done.
I walk through the cold London streets.
Gossipers chatter slithers its way in my ear.
The woman died in a pew.
She was buried alone in her grave by a nun.
I don’t know what compels me to do what I do
But I go to her headstone
And lay some lilies on the freshly dug earth
I shove my hands in my pocket and whisper
“I know who you were, Eleanor Rigby. I didn’t shun your presence.”
I turned on my heel and walked right out.
I never went back to that grave.
But whenever I look at that church’s stained glass window, that reached the sky.
I see her face, and each time I do..I can’t help but cry.
She is gone, with no recognition of who she was except I.
She was a lonely old woman, who had never done anything wrong.
But whenever I think of her, I sing this song.
All the lonely people, where do they all come from?
All the lonely people, where do they all belong?