Beneath the quiet earth rest her cold bones and over the ground a tomb of snow white; no tawdry embellishments carve the stones the pale marble glistens in the moonlight. The nightingale pines for its long lost mate, does its heaving heart burst forth with pain? Is it singing sweet notes of love and death - to birth the saddest song straining her vein? The holy graveyard grounds are desolate the sighing wind breaks each silent spell - wafting voices of those accursed by fate, whether living or departed, one cannot tell. Brooding silhouettes lurk here and there, slowly beating their raven feathered wings; though all the sleeping world seems fair, fantastical are the figments of imaginings. Deeply impassioned is Love's keen sting tethering my sad soul to hers till death; the fair lilies bloom over Lillien's grave, the scent of deep longing fills my breath.
© Copyright: Leah Chrestien. December 2022. The post Her Grave | Poetry first appeared on The Ecstatic Storyteller. The author reserves the right to the content. No reproduction of content in any form is permitted without the prior consent of the author.