His gravestone etched a scene
mourning wonder. Ghostly images
projecting messages upon the winds
of night. The trees let fly their dying
leaves, to make their bed with him.
Hauntingly, dead roses lay
his once imbedded grave. Did she
not yet know that he was free at last?
Why did she seek him there, where
fungus ate at all the flesh he used to be?
Alive in dreams and memories, yet ever
did these make her cry e'en more.
He wondered, vaguely, why
he could not leave that scene. Perhaps
his living memories must learn to lie there,
e'er so quietly, and finally end this love
with him. Could it be that even death
itself was lauded as perfection, all for
For his spirit, so alive,
refused to die.
And so the love he felt with her believed
in its continuance. Unexpectedly, these
thoughts rang out (through him) to every
living being. He heard her singing,
quietly, among a million starlit tears. He
knew her head would not find rest upon
a pillow filled with all the moisture of the
coming morning dew.
And yet he felt so useless
in his present
state of being; for no matter how he sought
to ease her pain within the dreaming world
he now inhabited; yet still she lived within/
among the world of breathing flesh; requiring
the feel of touch to ease her loneliness. And
this, he simply couldn't seem to do, not any
more, no matter how he wished to make it so.
Beyond his will, she felt
screaming, for they never quite could
touch. Momentarily, she laid another
bunch of fresh-cut flowers on his grave;
wondering without words, what it could
have been she'd done so wrong that
fate would bring their love to only this
and nothing more at all...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...