Drooping beneath the weighty rain—
Each drop—a Lover's Touch—
A Whisper, or a Revelation—
Too vast to clutch—too much—

The World—a stark and shaded pane—
Of Purity—and Loss—
Its Wounds concealed—yet bleeding still—
A mournful, shrouded Cross—

She trails her Veil—a Soggy Script—
A Tale without a Start—
The Clouds, the Trees, the Voice of Night—
Have vanished from the Heart—

The Door is locked—the Key—unknown—
The Anguish—hidden—deep—
The Knife—the Gravity of Breath—
The Taste—before we Sleep—

A Child—with Anklets—Bone and Bead—
A Mother—shamed—ensnared—
Their Hopes—a Candle, flickering faint—
Yet—Silence leaves them Scared—

The Soul absorbs the Mystic Fog—
A Lie—within its Clay—
The Veins of Time—wither and fray—
And Breath—expires—away—