Last

I cannot recant
the way her story
streamed effortlessly
across her ardent life span.

an unbound string of prayers,
sung in quiet octave,
hinged solely by melody
in drafts of memory.

Like a muse-
The escaping last autumn leaf
she wavered, free to the wind
a lead cupped in grace
of breeze

The glaze of disheveled memory
washing across this swollen meadow
when she chose to go
and what she left behind
would inevitably follow.

As these sordid weeks
lulls onward,
yanked roughly to my knees
in these shreds of black clothes,
sniveling out loud,
"This is not real
This isn't real-
She is not you"

My sunken palms 
forged and upturned
to heaven
tightened like ten
disjointed pews,
"How could he choose?"
"How could he take you?"

God does not spare me
your ghost, this day
Time is no mediator
You were forced away.

and my tears not even worth
this eventide.