She is dying.

Your mistress is pale
And you've held her hand tight
Her eyes, opaque and frail
But you tirelessly spend the night
Peeping in them,
Looking for the lost starlight.

Your mistress is prone
She has given up to decease
But your misery has grown
There's a conflict in the breeze-
To be exultant for the mistress,
Or to cry to the master's aridities.

Your mistress faintly sings
To you, of love, a prose
Its her dying smile that brings
One beneath your nose
And when you don't feel her pulse
Its time to lay the rose.

She is dying.
To a world worthier, flying.