A rich velvet blanket of black
swallows up the day,
draining the colors
as the star speckled darkness
marches forward.

Uneven rounded stones
sit on the soil
of those long forgotten.
Beloved Father, Loving Son,
I read, as I walk past them.
However, unimportant to me
are those carcasses in their graves.

But there,
under that great Yew tree,
her grey granite testimony
with shallow letters
and shallow dates.  
I ready a rose
from my pocket.

I remembered her eyes
that glowed with rings of gold.
They were an old and vintage wine
that made me lose my mind.
Fingers as gentle as the summer breeze
that caressed my face,
playing my heart as a piano.
Her words pulled my puppet strings,
bending me at her whim.
Silken arms that threaded around my body,
kisses that pulled tight,
tight until the silk was taut.

Now she lay
beneath my feet
for me to be,
a dark cloud wandering lonely.  
The reaper’s scythe
made a sound of steel
on stone.
He came for her,
my blushing bride,
he came to make me alone.
I was dead already,
knowing that our love
would finally turn
into a soft noose around my neck.

Each night I visit her
to say hello,
but each night I wish for the Reaper
to take me too.