Fingertips glide home
to where his body sleeps,
cold, wet concrete
two months deep.
Peaceful his spirit
roams and guides,
listens as she speaks.
In praise and missing
she smiles, highlighting lines
of story and life;
of trial — tribulation.
Yet, love beams beady eyes
with a conviction;
that flame words to ashes.
From it,
a grey strength rises,
in size and value,
like the moon:

Crescent to full.

 

© 2017 jk.larayne

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