Pieta

We wept, she and I,

drowned in the passion

of our total loss,

in the freezing black

of grim grey thoughts

shaded darker than we knew,

in the vacuum of a joyless moment,

when saying "sorry" wouldn't do.

The papers,

butterflies with printed wings,

fluttered wildly

down the glistening street,

wet with rain and blood.

No consolation in the stars this night,

as fog and wind parade

in the flashing of a solitary light.

The "should haves"

and the "could haves"

lack all meaning now.

Fate does not forgive

nor ask our understanding.

It is and that is all,

no apology forthcoming,

no apology at all.

I held you closely to my breast.

Your heart beat wildly,

drumming out a dance of death.

The fog is animate and cold,

it beats in rhythm turning red,

while newsprint vultures

with dampened wings,

circle slowly overhead.

That I could hold you closer still,

absorb your soul to have my fill

and carry you forever.

The dance is over.

The song has ceased.

The sound of sirens moan.

Time, no longer stopped, proceeds

and I shall weep alone.