Over the mantle, where fewest feathers were laid,
Like a softness I did not comprehend,
Was the only one ever made.
A breath was all it took to send each feather away
From atop the mantle, put in place.
I lost where the key went
To her heart.
I lost where the pain leapt
From her delicate sides,
I had anger for the world, and nothing to show
For a gift from my heart
That bleeds now in the mud.
Over the softness,
That blankets her body.
My heart holds the same thud, the same rhythm
To the pulse remaining in her veins.
What can I feel
What can I show for the tears
To stain her weathered years?
Love was once a kindness,
And all I feel is emptiness.
Like some child in curiosity,
There is blankness to every crevice
I have ever felt.
Two steps to the edge remaining,
One for each foot.
And I am stilled like the moon overhead,
While beneath is my grave
Where I may join the breathed motions of where she was placed,
In a chest,
Like love merely trampled her over.