Late

A tattered soul wanders
through the hushed town at night,
drags her heart round her ankles,
keeping far from the light.

Forgotten between fingers,
an empty bottle hangs loose.
The wind gusts, it slips free
from a nail-bitten noose.

Her steps trace a spray of tears
with forsaken slow beats,
to the black hill in the distance,
above the rain-peppered streets.

In their beds, ghosts are weeping,
lamenting love carved in stone.
Pale ranks in the moonlight,
of marble slabs hiding bone.

Atop a green, crew-cut blanket
rests a glistening wreath;
a dark cluster of bruises
mimic what lies beneath.

A leaf falls from an oak tree,
drowned, defeated and torn.
Past an etched verse it drifts,
then disappears in the storm.

To my love, ever-faithful,
I say this last goodbye
Though I always adored you,
you must now let me die.

Hair stuck to her wet face,
she screams into the gloom,
crumples to the soaked earth,
hand cradling her womb.

Do not grieve me, my darling,
but remember our life.
Free the hurt, and move onwards,
my wonderful, dear wife.

With face pressed to the cold slab,
she closes her eyes.
“I cannot leave you, dear husband,
for within me…”

 

 

© 2015 Scott Kaelen
Featured in DeadVerse: Poetry Volume One

2 thoughts on “Late

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