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… Continue reading Her Grave | Poetry
Does love damage and maim this way? Am I to sacrifice my blood and breath? Knowing full well that I cannot escape, with ribbons, you wrap the gift of death.