She was the moon
then the sun rose,
daylight looked on,
as he buried away
his dear prose,
a grave to mourn?
or a seed was sown?
She was the winter
then the sun rose,
all the blood bled,
all the tears shed,
manured into the land,
on which they both wed,
and in the deep ends lied
his dear prose.

Wounds renewed
knives were sharp,
****** fingertips
play the harp,
for a joyous union
yet again,
could've been
entwined in
strands of her mane,
bathed in requite at last.
Bled in a chalice
not in vain,
to be sipped a little
each passing day,
to ease the pain,
to yearn away,
yet again.

Neither singing nor words,
nor humming with the birds,
neither giggles nor laughs,
nor the breaking of voices,
nor the rapid water quaffs
after heartfelt cries,
none of this is heard now
for we meet behind shut eyes,
I long for it all, but for now,
these mere glimpses suffice.
Hours spent in silences,
now they go in vain,
for even silences
can feel incomplete,
memories of her presence
are all that remain.