I buried thee in a grave,
For my failure to simply save,
The conditions that plague your feeble form,
The additions of all terrible inconvenience,
A body crippled to be
Every page of our shared tragedy.
Love is now at its knees,
Calling me down to see,
What is only a belief.
I cannot truly accept,
Your loss from myself,
Here I kneel as though to propose,
And only death is before myself.
Would Death perhaps accept the rose,
The rose, or perhaps the ring?
Would Death marry this woeful heart,
And keep despair always away?
How would Death,
When you are Death?
A woman, now a skeleton,
Now a structure to form a museum,
Both of inward and outward,
The structure of pillars,
And the structure of artifacts.
You have sullied yourself,
Before the very man,
Who gained only because you have waned,
Freely from this horrid life.