Shrouded in decaying lace,
three mourners slowly turn,
held close in grief's embrace,
they watch the bodies burn.
Dead until their dying days,
cries caught in throats,
they hold worn bouquets,
as the wind rips their coats.
Hearts numb to bitter cold,
tears frozen onto cheeks,
painful tales left untold,
then one mourners speaks.
I am isolation,
feelings of alone,
grief's first creation,
numbness to the bone.
The first mourner runs away,
a trail of petals in her wake,
others still stand and pray,
as clutched hands shake.
Clouds split in frozen rain,
and sodden their ripped gowns,
and yet they still remain,
mouths placed in frowns.
One stares with dead eyes,
her face as white as chalk,
here to say her goodbyes,
then she begins to talk.
You all call me sorrow,
pain within the soul,
hurting until morrow,
no one can console.
Then this one disappears,
footprints in the sky,
she forgets all the tears,
whispering goodbye.
Then the last stands alone,
by that forgotten grave,
listening to the wind moan,
about the love it gave.
Cracked lips slowly part,
words whispered under breath,
telling secrets of the heart,
finding joy in death.
I am known as healing,
dulling of the sting,
just a simple feeling,
but the joy I bring.
Then she slowly walks away,
a smile on her face,
waits to mourn another day,
with the human race.
Footprints left on the dirt,
that lead to a shallow grave,
memories of the hurt,
abash all but the brave.
Three born sisters of sorrow,
stand 'round a new tombstone,
not seeing their tomorrow,
feeling all alone.
Bronze trophy winner
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