Her Death
If Time were only the
sweep of hands, subjects
mere tiny clicks~
then we could tinker with
metal sands, and springs
to determine life's short
or eternal ticks;
but unlike the glass, that tilts,
and turns, and drips, one's sense
of real loss with dear passing
profound...
though yet I am here...I have been
told...since your tragic unwound,
Time for me
came to an unraveling stop
with the last shovel
topping off
earth's too often
dispassionate
ground –
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