Ghost Of Sorrow

Of her death-- as in my Casket;

I feel the Sovereign seasons fly

Raw upon the biding Earth,

Dragging the Frame inside which I lie.

My Rapture, soiled by loss,

Like my form, defiled by Time.

And Pain: Tears on reminding mold--

An Abyssal depth consumed by repine.

While Buried in gloom,

-- Though wood often drones,

And filed feet drum false hope,

For time holds no spade--

My mind still atrophies,

As fleshy white worms

Stem a musty life-worn plea--

The slow recession into shrouded vision.

In prayer to Gods unsent,

While crows caw my obsequies,

The coffin-- like the heart-- is made for

Interment, with Bereavement's

Scorching, wooden dirge.