Whispers

A weeping woman slouches at the foot of a grave.

On the headstone sits a raven,  but

in his black eye is nothing and nothing is reflected there.

 

The wind whispers,  it blows upon her tears but

it does not dry them.

Tossed by the wind are yellow leaves which lick along the grass.

Those on the tree tremble.

 

The sun is out but it does not shine

from behind the clouds in her mind.

Memories claw her brain,  finding only guilty sustenance.

 

Sobs leap in her throat but choke in the silence

of the dead who refuse to die.

 

Black skirts rustle,  bringing the memory of feathers.

The woman looks to the bird on the stone; her eyes

echo nothing,  which they do not see there.

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About Marie

An eccentric & quirky artist and writer who fills her time between fantasy roleplaying sessions with painting, writing and playing her guitar (rather badly). Usually to be found with paint-stained fingers surrounded by books and tubes of acrylic paint.
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