He read it to her the night before he passed.
As if he knew perhaps, that night would be his last.
He sloped to off bed, ready for sleep.
Did he know that she would weep?
Perhaps his will, a potent portent of the state of failing health.
7 am on Wednesday, bought all sorts of woe.
Maybe he knew it was his time to go.
She sauntered into his room.
Curtains pulled, darkness called.
A room of gloom.
Death, descended unexpectedly.
Peacefully sleeping.
Eternally.
(C) LIVVI,