The Visitation


rose

 

Gray shadows fall upon my face
Here within this sacred place;
The stone so cold, and roughly hewn
Beneath this waning winter moon

The air is thin and so am I
My heart is heavy, I start to cry
Each letter of her chiseled name
Is lit as though with golden flame

My fingers trace the shallow grooves
As though with touch I could disprove
She is no more, and I am less
Without her voice and soft caress

Bereft and full of memories
I rise up from on bended knee
I place a rose upon her grave
Each petal but a kiss I’ve saved

Now, slowly do I turn for home
Only now, I walk alone.

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3 thoughts on “The Visitation

  1. Were we given the choice to be free of the grief, would we dare to trade even one caress, even one memory? I think not. We don’t miss what we don’t love. We are right to hold it close, for though people pass away, relationships do not. True love stories never end. ~ Bobbie

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  2. Pingback: Love’s Transforming Hand | hastywords

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