In the chill of a groaning dusk
Where sense and self are lost,
Two streams of smog and gravel
diverge,
and meet at a cross.
A widow frail and insecure,
Sooty hair
lay like knotted thread.
With pale hands that rattle-
like chimes-
at her sides,
desperate to meet the Bullhead.
The moon’s hopeless face
Is beaming to light
this trail lined by gnarling limbs,
Split by the woman
Traipsing through
To the center.
A crossroads sat taunting and grim.
An ache plucking her heart’s tearing strings
Led her to the bargain at hand,
In search for resurgence of once beloved things.
To grasp to his death,
crumbling like sand.
She stands at the cross
On this sinister night
And calls to the force in the dark.
With no sign of his presence
a figure emerges.
No grand entrance,
not smoke nor a spark.
It’s dark stature is looming
And taunting enough,
No sign of where eyes might lay,
yet a great sense of watching,
of hunger,
all-knowing,
it knows what she offers
its way.
A sheer draping cloak
Of amber and ash
adorns it and brushes with wind.
Their silence speaks volumes;
in distance is heard,
almost mocking,
Faint whispers of sin.
It knows just what she has come here to do
Ashamed, she hangs her head low.
For her late husband’s fondness,
his sweet half-return.
She forswears what she must,
Her soul.
The figures dark veil
Parts with a soft gust
a concealed alley passageway.
Drawn to it’s void,
She lulls through the dark
and awakens to meet a new day.
Soft in her sheets,
This morn’ is her last,
But warmly,
the sun meets her eyes.
And as she rolls over for another bland day
She finds
Her love at her side.
And though for a moment
She’s riddled with joy
And awaits a new future to come,
Her fate soon sinks in,
She won’t live to see it,
Too late, she sees what she’s done.
