Molten Poetry

Let it burn.

Dearest angel
of the morning,
why are we
estranged? I called
out to you
in my mourning,
but those words
fell by the way.

What could you
have said?

What was left
to be done?

You sit there,
stone-still,
waiting for
something
yet to come.

Are you praying?

To whom do you speak?

There on your grave,
I wonder if you
were always

praying for me.


©️ 2018.

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