The Vigil
The Vigil (Octodil)
Late through the night
A flame burns oil.
He sits with weary eyes
In vigil by the bed.
She lies supine; soft is her breath,
Peaceful, serene her pallid face.
He sleeps; she breathes no more.
Oil-starved the flame goes out.
Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2015
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